


The Gauntlet

by BirdofFire



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-10-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 14:37:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BirdofFire/pseuds/BirdofFire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Hermione is in an accident & suffers from memory loss, she forgets all about her relationship with the infamous Draco Malfoy and Viktor Krum. It also doesn't help that she broke it off with the latter and can barely stand the former. So, when it is made clear that her best chance at recovery is to move in with two men, the situation goes from bad to worse to Hell in a quilted hand-basket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**The Gauntlet**

* * *

 

 _Gauntlet: /g_ ôntlit/ 

 

_Noun_

 

_To go through an intimidating or dangerous crowd, place, or experience in order to reach a goal._

* * *

 

**I**

* * *

 

The first thing Hermione felt was a fierce but numbing pain spreading through her entire body. It inched its way painfully through every vein and limb, so intense and so thorough, she could have sworn the very strands of her hair reeled from it. In an attempt to release some of it, she tried to scream, only to find that she was unable to move her lips.

Or those aching, throbbing limbs.

Or open her eyes.

Panicking now, pupils darting frantically behind closed eyelids, Hermione became aware of muffled voices in the distance. But before she could try to distinguish them, fatigue crept its way up alongside the pain, seeping into her very bones.

No! Hermione tried to fight it, tried to focus on the voices that became less and less distinct as each second passed. But she was so  _tired_  and it was just so much easier to…

to…

…..

When Hermione next returned to consciousness, the light behind her eyelids were a lot brighter. Her mouth felt like her tongue had been used to grate cheese and that woodpecker knocking against the inside of her skull was still hammering away.

But at least the mind-numbing ache in her limbs was gone, leaving behind only fatigue. Fatigue Hermione could deal with, so she was grateful for at least that respite. However, not wanting to push her luck  _just_  yet, she didn’t try to move anything, choosing instead to take in as much as she could – still blind - from her surroundings.

She didn’t know how long she’d been out (though she assumed it was enough time for the pain to go away), but the voices from earlier were slightly more distinct. If shestrained hard enough, she could actually –

  “This is ridiculous,” a man drawled, a ring of concern in his voice. “It’s been two weeks and she still hasn’t woken up. Enough is enough. We’re having her transferred.” There was barely a moment before another voice spoke.

  “Over our dead bodies! Tell him, Harry! Hermione is staying here and that’s final.”

St. Mungo’s? Well, that would explain a lot. Hermione had noticed the unmistakeable ‘hospital’ smell of sickness and bleach earlier, but, for whatever reason, had thought she was back in the medical ward at Hogwarts. Which, looking back, was a little strange considering she hadn’t been a student there in almost six years.

  “We gave you a chance, Weasley.” The first man’s voice returned. “Time’s up.” At that moment, Hermione heard the sound of a door swinging open, followed by hurried footsteps.

  “Fuck you, M-”

  “There is no need for that, Weezley.” Hermione stiffened at the strong, recognisable Bulgarian accent. “You can haff one more day – then ve  _vill_ be moving her.”  _Viktor_? What was  _he_ doing there? And who had given him the authority to move her anywhere? 

Irritated at her boys’ behaviour, Viktor’s unexplained involvement, the as-of-yet unidentified man’s ridiculous suggestion (Hermione didn’t even feel like getting up to go the _toilet_ , let alone put up with a transfer, presumably to another hospital) and her still pounding head, Hermione opened her eyes for the first time in a fortnight.

Squinting as the reflection of the room’s white walls almost blinded her, Hermione took in the open windows and the two wide beige sofas on either side (the room’s only furniture aside from her bed – the only one in the room), before her eyes came to rest on the four men standing in the middle of the room.

Harry Potter stood slightly apart from the others, a look of slight irritation marring his handsome features, green eyes glittering dangerously. Slightly in front of him was her other best friend, Ron Weasley, whose hands were clenched tightly at his sides, knuckles white. Her Bulgarian ex, tall, lean and broodily good-looking with a swarthy complexion, full lips and dark eyes, was eyeing the hot tempered redhead warily.

When Hermione’s gaze switched to the silent man beside him, however, she froze. How could she have not recognised one of the most distinctive voices in wizarding Britain? Someone who had tormented her (and numerous others) throughout her Hogwarts’ years? What the hell was Draco Malfoy, continued bane of her existence, doing in her hospital room?

Finely carved aristocratic features graced a pale, chiselled face, topped by a full head of almost-silver hair. Broad shoulders, a wide chest, tapered waist and strong legs followed, all encased in a shirt and a pair of muggle jeans. Frowning at that, Hermione’s eyes returned to the other three men – all of whom had yet to notice that she had returned to the land of the living.

She cleared her throat, loudly, noticing that it still felt like used sandpaper. At the sudden noise, all four turned, startled. Seeing the former Gryffindor wide awake and alert, there was a brief scuffle as they fought to her bedside; each clearly wanting to be first.

Confused at Viktor and Malfoy’s behaviour, Hermione inched herself higher onto the cushy pillows behind her as the two men won out and hurried to her side.

  “Mila.” Viktor’s usually grave eyes were alight with what looked like relief as he seized her hand. “You are awake!”

  “Er, yes.” Hermione’s confused gaze switched between him and Draco’s widely smiling face.

  “So, you decided to return from the Land of the Living Dead?” The former Slytherin quipped. Hermione’s eyes narrowed in confusion. A muggle phrase? Malfoy?

But before she could ask him about where he had learnt it (Heaven forbid a Malfoy ever associated with  _muggles_ ), Harry and Ron pushed their way past the other two men and seized her, forcefully.

  “Hermione!” Ron’s freckled face was stretched into a happy grin. “Oh, it’s so good to see you!” Hermione’s face was smushed against his broad shoulder, even as she raised a tired hand to pat his back, comfortingly. Harry’s strong arms were clasped around her middle.

  “It’s good to see you guys, too.” Hermione’s voice was croaky; her throat still scratchy and painful, but her boys’ enthusiasm seeped into her like rain into parched earth. After a moment of comfortingly familiar connection, they finally released her, with Ron holding her at arms’ length to inspect her thoroughly. “I’m fine, Ron,” she reassured him, a smile coming to her lips at his predictability.

  “Uh huh. Well you can’t blame us for being concerned. You’ve been out for two whole weeks,” Ron continued, gaze clouding over with anxiety.

  “I heard,” Hermione answered, her attention returning to Viktor and Malfoy who stood at the foot of her bed, the latter’s hands resting on her duvet-covered feet. Frowning, she retracted them, slightly, causing the blond’s eyes to flicker up to her face.

  “Viktor, I don’t mean to be rude, but what are you doing here?” Hermione asked, eyeing the tall silent man whose eyes seemed unable to move from her face.

  “Vhere else vould I be?” Viktor looked puzzled. Not quite sure how to answer that, Hermione turned to Malfoy.

   “And what are  _you_  doing here, Malfoy?” Her tone was laced with irritation, both at the woodpecker’s persistence and the current confusing state of affairs. There was a brief inexplicable pause during which she felt Harry and Ron shift beside her and the blond looked taken aback and, oddly,  _hurt_.

  “What’s going on, Granger?” he asked, uncharacteristically carefully. His silver eyes rested on Hermione, a peculiar light in their depths.

  “I think  _I_ should be the one asking that.” For some unknown reason, Hermione’s heart was pounding. “Shouldn’t you be at work, Viktor? And, Malfoy, don’t you havesome other poor soul to torment?” Her tone was half teasing, but Malfoy’s strange expression didn’t change, while Viktor continued on with his habitual frown. There was another odd silence.

  “What’s going on?” Heart climbing into her throat, Hermione quickly turned back to Harry and Ron. “Am I – am I  _dying_?”

  “What? No!” Harry rushed to reassure her as Ron looked down at the brunette, understandably confused.  _Well, join the club, Ron, we’ve got Jackets_ , Hermione thought. 

“Then what are these two doing here?” Hermione asked, her attention once more on the two silent men at the foot of her bed. Could they blame her for asking suchquestions? Sure, she and Viktor were friends and had become closer since he moved to England a few years ago, but to lay down the law about her being potentially transferred? And just  _what_  was Malfoy doing there? While it was true that their relationship had improved in the years since they’d been working together at the Ministry (though, they couldn’t possibly have gotten any worse), he was hardly the type to visit  _anyone_  in hospital - particularly someone he claimed he could still barely stand most days.

Hermione wanted answers and she wanted them now.

  “What do you  _think_  they’re doing here, Hermione?” Harry asked, tiredly. “They’re hardly here to paint the walls; though, they’ve been doing a great job of climbing them.”

  “I – what are you  _talking_  about, Harry?”

  “Oh, no, Hermione. Dating them was all  _your_ idea; it’s a little late to ask for our opinion now.” Ron interrupted, sniggering nastily. Hermione’s heart stopped. A distinct ringing started up in her ear, drowning out Ron’s next words.  _What_ had he just said?

The ringing suddenly stopped, sending its best friend, silence, screaming into her ears. A brief pause then peals of laughter replaced it. It took the four men’s surprise for Hermione to realise that  _she_  was the one cackling like a witch of yore.

She laughed till her stomach hurt, till gasps were escaping her in an attempt to take in more air. Till tears streamed down her cheeks.

And not once during her semi-breakdown did Malfoy or Viktor’s expressions join in, as she would have expected had she been slightly less distracted. In fact, if anything, Malfoy’s face turned to stone, grey eyes glittering, while Viktor’s dark brows remained hooded over his eyes.

It took several more moments for her to calm down, her hands coming up to wipe  trails of moisture from her cheeks.

  “Oh, I needed that.” Hermione hiccupped, still breathless. “Okay, you two can come  out, now.” Harry and Ron looked at each other, confused.

  “Who are you talking to, ‘Mione?” Ron asked, bringing a hand up to her forehead. “Are you sure you’re okay?” Hermione brushed away his clammy fingers.

  “I’m fine and I’m talking to your awful brothers.” She glanced around for any sign of disturbance. “Come on out, Fred and George!” There was another silence. By this point, Hermione was getting tired of these prolonged silences.

  “Where are they? This was a good one; I have to admit. It goes up there with their best. So, have them come on out so they can claim their glory and we can all move on with our day.”

  “Er, Hermione,” Harry started. “What are you talking about?” The brunette rolled her eyes.

  “This whole ‘Hermione-dating-Viktor-and-Malfoy’ thing.” She explained, long-suffering. “They’re obviously the ones who cooked the whole thing up. It’s not exactly something  _you_  two would come up with and I seriously doubt Malfoy would have okayed this, so it stands to reason that the infamous twins are to blame.” Another pause. “Where  _are_  they?”

There was still no sign of the twin proprietors and, for whatever reason, neither Malfoy nor Viktor had said a  _word_  for over five minutes. She turned back to them now, puzzled. Surely, these two would have reason to be annoyed at the twins’ escapades. She highly doubted either one wanted to be connected with her in any romantic sense; Viktor already having a steady girlfriend and Malfoy being, well,  _Malfoy_.

  “Hermione, honey, this isn’t a joke.” Harry laughed a little, clearly stumped. “Are you  _sure_ you’re feeling okay?”

  “Yes, I’m ‘ _sure_ ’ I’m feeling okay, Harry.” Hermione was irritated, glaring at the green-eyed man beside her. “This has gone on long enough. Get the twins in here, now.” Her heart picked up speed once more and all the moisture in her mouth dried up. Because there was no way this could be anything but a joke.

Absolutely no way.

  “Hermione, you  _do_  remember that you are ours, no?” Viktor spoke up for the first time in what seemed like an age, his gaze serious. Hermione’s heart chose that moment to skip several beats.

  “This isn’t funny, Viktor.” Hermione’s voice was quiet. “The boys and Malfoy are one thing, but I would have expected more from you.” She ignored Malfoy’s clearly feigned look of offence. Viktor fell into silence once more, his dark eyes boring into her.

  “Trying to back out, now, Granger?” Malfoy sneered, grey eyes glittering. “Too fucking late.” Hermione opened her mouth to retort, only to be cut off by Harry’s next, soul-shattering statement.

  “Hermione, you’ve been living with Viktor and Malfoy for over six months, now,” Harry spoke slowly and clearly as Hermione stared back at him, sickened. Wait…  _what_? Viktor and Malfoy?  _Both_ of them?

 

So, she’d become a brazen hussy and she had absolutely no memory of it? No way, Hermione reassured herself. No matter what had landed her in this hospital bed; no matter how long she had gone without getting laid (eight months and sixteen days, but who was counting?), she would  _never_  have slept with two men, let alone have carried on a relationship with them.

Clearly, this lot didn’t know when a joke would no longer be taken as that.

  “Harry, this is no longer funny,” Hermione started, voice trembling and brown eyes stark. “I’m lying in a hospital bed; I just woke up after  _two weeks_  and the first thing you lot think to do is pull a stunt like this?” Her voice broke as a wave of hurt washed over her, pulling her under.

  “But, ‘Mione-”

  “No!!” Hermione almost shouted, using her little strength to push herself up from the pillows and glare at the four, clearly suicidal idiots standing before her. “I’m tired and I want you to leave.” Harry and Ron rushed to convince her to change her mind, while Malfoy gaze remained fixed on her pale face and Viktor’s eyes darkened even further. But Hermione wasn’t having any of it. The woodpecker was refusing to pack his bags and make a welcome exit and fatigue was oozing into her limbs once more. There was only so much she could be expected to take before snapping.

Viktor took a hesitant step forward.

  “Mila, surely you are rash in-”

  “I said, leave!” Hermione snapped, eyes flashing, dangerously. There was a shocked pause in which all four stared at her, taken aback. But Hermione fiercely fought her fatigue and remained firm. When it became clear that the brunette was serious, Harry and Ron moved to hug her, only to be rebuffed by stiff shoulders and a cold glare. The two former Gryffindors quickly exited the room, tails between their legs. Hermione turned her attention to the silent men who had inched their way to the left side of her bed. Viktor stood in his usual way, hands clasped behind his back (something he did to hide his characteristic – yet well hidden – nervousness) and Malfoy continued to glare right back at the curly-haired woman lying on the bed.

  “That means you, too,” Hermione said, coldly. A stillness went over both men before Malfoy’s eyes flashed once, almost in warning. Instinctively, against her will, Hermione drew back against her pillows and, seeing this, Draco froze, silver turning to dark grey and full lips thinning, before he turned to leave. With a final look of bewildered confusion, Viktor followed in his stead, shutting the door quietly behind him.  

A robin chirped once from outside Hermione’s window before silence reigned in the room once more.

 

 


	2. II

**II**

* * *

 

“Reality continues to ruin my life.” 

-      **Bill Watterson.**

* * *

It hadn’t been a joke.

That’s what had become painfully clear to Hermione over the days following her return to consciousness. The unmoving block of ice that lay where her stomach used to refused to melt, having taken up residence the moment Viktor and Malfoy had left her room on Saturday afternoon.

She’d laid there for three and a half hours in vain hope that she would fall victim to her fatigue, only to be kept awake by the adrenaline pumping relentlessly through her system. How could _she_ – Hermione Granger, former princess of Gryffindor, pride of the Ministry’s finance department and the so-called ‘Greatest Witch of the Age’ – be involved in a three-way relationship with her famous ex-boyfriend and not-so-former nemesis? In what mind must she have been in to allow such a… thing to happen? It was wrong in every possible sense, morally base and reprehensible.

She had only felt worse when Harry and Ron had shown up the next morning, Pansy Parkinson in tow. Having been made partners for several projects at work, she and the former Slytherin had found that they had more things in common than they had previously thought. With the two years Pansy had spent abroad after the war (in self-imposed exile, though she denied it whenever asked), the dark-haired girl had gained a maturity and softness that appealed to Hermione, though the general public still mostly seemed unable to see it. The two women had become closer than even they would have thought possible, something that none of their friends appreciated or understood.

So, she was understandably surprised when her two boys had brought the former Slytherin to her bedside. It had turned out, however, that they had only done it in an attempt to divert her anger away from them. They’d had Pansy confirm what Hermione had come to realise was the truth: she, Viktor and Malfoy were indeed in a three-way relationship, and had been for the last eleven and a half months. A roiling feeling setting up shop besides that block of ice, barely registering the fact that she had forgotten almost a year’s worth of her life, Hermione had asked about Viktor’s ex and what had happened there. Pansy’s silence had said more than words ever could.

Hermione had thrown up all over the duvet.

She hadn’t noticed the nurse enter and _Scourgify_ it clean. Nor had she paid any heed to Harry and Ron’s departure of the room and subsequent return with a doctor. When the blonde, white lab coat-wearing woman had explained just what had happened to her, she had barely paid attention and Pansy had later had to recount the events that had led to her hospital stay. Two weeks prior, Hermione had been on her way back to the Ministry, when she had been attacked by a still-angry death eater sympathiser. She had suffered a serious head injury, resulting in a concussion and the temporary memory loss she was currently experiencing.

Hermione hadn’t known whether to be disappointed or relieved that it was only ‘temporary’.

Then the blonde doctor had dropped the Hiroshima of all bombs, one that still laid waste to Hermione’s innards whenever it so much as crossed her mind. She claimed that, in order for Hermione’s memory to return fully and as fast as possible, it would be best for her to move back in with Viktor and Malfoy. Apparently, as the two men had been a comparatively new addition and had become such a huge part of her life over a relatively short period of time (the period of time that she had lost), she would be most likely to recover if she were in their company.

Turning over, Hermione had rudely requested that she be left alone.

When she was the sole occupant of the room once more, Hermione had crumpled into herself. Seemingly, it wasn’t enough that she was currently standing in second place to the Whore of Babylon. Now, she had to move in with _them_ , too. She had never thought that she would ever be The Other Woman, either: call it a lesson from Ron and Lavender’s ill-fated but soul-crushing fling back in sixth year. She knew what it was like to feel like you had been abandoned for another, was well acquainted with the insecurities that left you crippled for years after.

 _That’s_ what had had her react so violently. Having been in a similar situation herself, how could she have brought herself to inflict that pain on someone else?

And Malfoy? Draco Malfoy, someone who she could barely stand to be in the same room as? Someone who showed little remorse for his past actions, who had stood by as…

No.

It was now Wednesday and, after growing more and more restless, she couldn’t be happier that she was to be discharged the following day. But there was no way she was moving back in with _them_ and she would flay herself alive before she allowed them to touch her again.

Tomorrow, when Harry and Ron came to pick her up, she’d let them know that one of them would have to clean out a spare room. Hermione would be moving in. 


	3. III

**III**

* * *

 

“Life will not break your heart. It'll crush it.”   
― Henry Rollins

* * *

“What have you got in here, Hermione? Bricks?”

Hermione dumped her heavy duffel bag on the side table, not even bothering to glance at the raven-haired man struggling behind her. “Oh, ha ha, Harry. It’s almost as if you don’t know a levitating charm.”

She almost heard the sound of Harry’s eyes rolling to the ceiling as she shrugged off her peacoat. A moment later, several large boxes floated past her, down the corridor and up the stairs.

  “I’ll just take these on up for you, then?” Harry was sarcastic as he walked past, a smaller box labelled ‘ _toiletries_ ’ under one arm.

   “Please and thank you!” Hermione called after him, choosing to ignore his tone.

Having told the hospital staff in no uncertain terms that she would _not_ be leaving with the two men who had slept in the waiting room and, no, she would _not_ remove the order she had issued barring their admittance to her room, Hermione had let Dr Besette know that she would, in fact, be going home with one of her boys. When Harry and Ron had turned up just over an hour later, she had had her bag packed and ready to go. After being told that one of them would have to put her up indefinitely, they had fruitlessly tried to convince her to move back in with her former paramours, only to be sternly rebuffed. Harry, living alone, had then agreed that he’d clean out her old room at 12 Grimmauld Place and had been unceremoniously sent to the townhouse she shared with Viktor and Malfoy to pack up some of her belongings.

Three and a half hours later, here Hermione and Harry were: boxes and bags in tow. Hermione had almost forgotten how much she hated moving. She had no idea how she’d put up with doing it just a few months ago, and moving back into the apartment she’d lived in before shacking up with Viktor and Malfoy just wasn’t an option.

For obvious reasons.

   “Hermione!” a muffled call came from upstairs. “Where do you want me to put these?” Pitying Harry for the first time in hours (he’d spent the night apprehending a suspect and had then had to shift nine large boxes from the townhouse to Grimmauld Place, poor thing), Hermione hurried down the dark corridor and bounded up the stairs. Harry was in the first bedroom on the right, surrounded by floating boxes. He looked dusty, tired and irritable, and anyone who knew the Man Who Triumphed, knew that that was a bad combination.

   “Just put them down over there in the corner,” Hermione gestured to the far right corner of the room beside the bay window. Light streamed in through the freshly-washed panes, reflecting off the white sheet-covered furniture. Walking around the large, octagon-shaped room and pulling off the sheets, Hermione was once again grateful for the renovations the house had undergone in the last few years. After all the fuss around she, Harry and Ron had died down after the war and some semblance of normality had been re-established, the three of them had (despite Harry’s protests that the contents of just one of his Gringotts’ vaults could more than cover the cost) combined the money that had come with their Orders of Merlin (First Class) and had renovations done on the house at Grimmauld Place. The faulty plumbing had been gutted, the carpets pulled up and replaced by pine floorboards, the old chairs and sofas reupholstered and every room in the house had been re-painted and extensively re-decorated: with cream, wine and warm chocolate being the primary colour scheme. The result was the brighter, cleaner and comfortably furnished house the three had co-inhabited for over three years, and Hermione had loved returning from her replacement year at Hogwarts to this very room.

An immense stone fireplace roared on the wall opposite a large, damask-covered queen-size bed. Against a smaller wall was a wide oak desk, Hermione whisking a white sheet off it, now, to reveal the familiar polished surface. Heavy, burgundy velvet curtains that hung on either side of the window fell to the floor, and the view thus afforded was that of the narrow but well-kept garden and setting sun. Late summer and the onset of autumn ensured that the trees’ leaves weren’t as green, but the air was still heavy and thick.

Something under the giant oak at the foot of the garden caught her eye.

Hermione turned just as Harry wiped his sweaty brow, the light picking up the brown highlights in his hair that the August sun was responsible for.

   “So, you finally put in that swing?” she asked him. Harry froze, eyes flickering to the garden below.

   “What?”

   “The swing,” Hermione turned back to point out of the window to the carved, homemade swing hanging from one of the oak’s biggest boughs. It swayed in the soft breeze, its creaks reaching their ears. “You finally put it in.”

   “Hermione…” Harry’s failure to finish his sentence brought Hermione’s focus back from the swing to her best friend, who had a look of suspicion on his face.

   “What, Harry?” she asked, wondering what he was up to. Harry paused and scratched his head for a moment, eyeing her.

   “Are you _sure_ you’ve lost your memory, or is there something else going on here?” he asked, carefully. “Because if there is, you know you can always tell me. Whatever it is.” Hermione was confused. What on earth was Harry talking about, now? With the events of the last few days, maybe she should prepare to batten down the hatches.

   “Of _course_ I’ve lost my memory, Harry,” she replied, curtly, hands coming to her jeans-covered hips. “How else could I have forgotten all about my little affair with the ‘Bulgarian bon-bon’ and Witch Weekly’s Bachelor of the Year?”

   “Well, he came in at second place, actually-“

   “Harry!”

    “Well, it’s just that… I didn’t even start thinking about installing a swing until you mentioned it… and that was in May.” Harry explained, hesitantly, as he watched Hermione. For the second time in a week, Hermione’s stomach hit the floor and kept going.

   “I don’t understand.” Her tone was careful, distant, her mind far away from Grimmauld Place and currently dancing around the possibility that she may just have granted the late Bellatrix Lestrange’s wish; to see Hermione run completely mad.

   “Well, you mentioned it and then Ron, Viktor, Malfoy and I built the thing for Teddy in June,” he continued. Noticing that Hermione had yet to move anything than her lips, Harry stepped closer, concern shining in his emerald eyes. Outside, a robin called to its mate, piercing the eerie silence.

   “I... I…” Hermione could barely comprehend what was going on, let alone attempt to finish a sentence. Large hands grasped her arms, seeping much needed warmth into her frozen system.

   “How can you remember that, but not the whole Viktor and Malfoy thing?” The raven-haired man was gentle. Hermione was shaking her head before she even realised it. How _did_ she remember something that small? How was that possible when even Dr Bassette had said she’d suffered almost total memory loss? It just didn’t make sense.

   “I don’t know.” Her voice was small and defeated even to her own ears. She took hold of Harry’s hands, hoping to absorb even a little of his strength. Strength she’d seemed to have lost over the last few days.

   “Well, what else do you remember?” Harry asked, stooping down from his 6”3 height to make eye contact with her. Hermione shrugged, habitually, before actually taking register and, almost immediately, snapshots and lines from odd conversations flooded her mind.

Reeling, she sat, heavily, on the window-seat. Harry, lovely man that he was, instantly rushed forward.

   “What is it? What’s wrong?” His words fell over one another, ringing with concern. “If it’s too much, you don’t have to answer.” Hermione’s hand came up to his arm, reassuringly.

   “No, no, it’s okay,” she answered, eyes unseeing, focussing on the memories still pouring in. And the overwhelming relief that was making her lightheaded. “We – we had lunch together last Friday – well, not _last_ Friday,” she corrected herself. “But the Friday before it happened. We were talking about Ron moving in with Luna…”

   “Yes!” Harry seized onto her words. “Yes, we were! But how do you know that?” Looking up at her best friend for the first time in a while, Hermione shrugged.

   “No idea…” She paused, searching again for any memories concerning Viktor and Malfoy, but there was no response. Blank spaces - gaping holes where she knew memories should be. “And there’s still nothing about Viktor and Malfoy. In fact, the last time I remember seeing them was…” Here she trailed off, rooting through her mind for any recollection of the two men, until, at last one, came to her. “Penelope had just moved in with Viktor. He and Malfoy came to my office for lunch and he told me, but that was last July! I… I don’t – how could this have happened?” she asked, bewildered, large brown eyes fixed on the wooden floorboards. Seeking to comfort Hermione, Harry took a seat beside her.

   “Do you remember anything about them since then?”

Hermione shook her head.

   “Nothing?”

Another shake of the head. “This just doesn’t make any sense!” Hermione stood up in frustration, starting to pace. There was nothing she hated more than being kept in the dark, and to have such a huge part of her life just ripped from her, leaving only roots were there had once been full-grown redwoods, was weighing on her, heavily. “Some events that I _know_ must have happened since, I have absolutely _no_ recollection of!” She swivelled on her heel, Harry watching her progress like a Labrador gazing out of a car window. “Like George and Angelina’s wedding, for example. Did that go ahead?” Harry nodded

   “Yep, in January. That was your first event as a ‘tripling’, or whatever it was that Fred called it.”

Hermione threw her hands into the air, irritated.

   “Exactly! And I can’t remember it! Just like I can’t remember anything about actually building that damn swing or where I’ve been living for the last few months or how I ever agreed to being involved in something like – like _that_ in the first place.” Because _that_ was the real issue here. Hermione couldn’t stand the fact that she had been an active, willing participant in something like a ménage à trois, let alone handle her inability to remember just what had led to it in the first place.

As Harry continued to watch her pace around the room, Hermione struggled to think of how this could have happened. How could she remember so much about work, friends, parties, outings – but, when it came to anything that contained so much as a _mention_ about either Viktor or Malfoy after last July (more than a year earlier), her mind was blank. A blackboard wiped clean, leaving no trace of what had been inscribed upon it beforehand. It was frustrating, irritating and more than a little tiring.

   “What do you want to do, Hermione?” Harry asked, finally, having grown tired of Hermione tracing the same path back and forth across the room. By this time, the shadows in it had grown longer and he _still_ hadn’t had any sleep in almost thirty-six hours. But, being occupied with her own considerable problems and not being a legilimens by any stretch of the imagination, Hermione paid Harry and his sleepless state no mind. “We could always go back to St. Mungo’s for a second opinion? Tell them what’s going on?”

Those words brought Hermione crashing back to earth. The thought of spending just one hour at St. Mungo’s was more than she could bear.

   “No, Harry,” she replied, curtly. “We will not be going back to St. Mungo’s.” Harry looked about to interrupt her so Hermione cut in, “I think we’ve spent more than enough time in hospitals to last us a lifetime.” Harry fell silent at the heavy meaning in her words and the two friends shared an understanding look of those who had seen more in their lifetime than anyone should have to. “I think I’ll just get some sleep,” she took up again, her tone gentler. The raven-haired man frowned, the bags under his eyes grouping up into luggage.

   “But it’s only nine o’clock,” he said, confused, glancing at the dusty clock on the wall for confirmation.

   “And I just spent a fortnight at St. Mungo’s, lost my memory and found out I’ve been shacking up with Viktor Krum and Draco Malfoy for the last six months.” Harry contemplated Hermione’s words for only a moment, before acknowledging their validity and waving a hand in surrender. The green-eyed man propelled himself from the cushy window-seat and crossed over to his female best friend, pulling her into a forceful hug.

   “Get some rest, Hermione,” he murmured. “You really scared us this time.” Tears pricking her eyes at the slight tremble in his voice, Hermione hugged him back just as fiercely. Where finding out she was a glorified whore hadn’t brought her to tears, Harry’s quietly expressed worry did. They had survived seven years of fighting the worst evil the Wizarding world had ever seen, emerged still – mostly – standing, and now to have to suffer this? Surely they’d been through enough? In Hermione’s opinion, there should be a limit on how many life-threatening experiences one should be subject to during their lifetime, one she had undoubtedly reached over a decade earlier.

Seeming to sense her melancholy, Harry drew back, eyes narrowed in concern.

   “You okay?” he asked, softly. Hermione tried to brush away his worries with a slight smile and shake of her head.

   “I’m fine, Harry,” she reassured him. “Just tired.” Reinforcing her smile, she was careful to hide her words’ double meaning. He eyed her for a moment longer but, when she continued to smile firmly at him, he let it go.

   “Okay. I’ll see you in the morning, then.” With another quick squeeze of her upper arms, the raven-haired man hurried out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. Undoubtedly, he wanted to catch a few hours of sleep before heading back to the Ministry to wrap up the case he had declined to provide details of. At the thought, Hermione’s forced smile twisted into a smaller but more genuine, affectionate one. It wasn’t like Harry to be so secretive about his work unless it was for a good reason, so she knew that he would also tell her all about it in time. Or if he needed her help, as he was still wont to.

It was a shame he couldn’t help _her_ , though.

A relationship with two men that she couldn’t remember and huge chunks of her life over the past year missing and all because someone didn’t agree with her involvement in ridding the world of an evil it had never witnessed before. Torture, murder and all the other atrocities she had witnessed or suffered over seven years ago, _they_ all made at least _some_ sense because they were during the war. But this was peacetime. How could she be expected to understand it now?

And, after everything the war had taken from her – physically, emotionally,mentally -, how could Hermione get past something like this when she didn’t think she had it in her anymore?

Outside in the garden, a colder breeze picked up. 

 

....


	4. IV

**IV**

* * *

 

 “In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on.”

― Robert Frost

* * *

 

Slamming his office door shut, Harry tightened the hold he had on the overflowing file in his grasp. Beyond him was the darkened main hallway of the Auror department, gloomy as the grave and twice as silent. The numerous doors along it were all closed, signalling that, as had been the case all week, Harry was the last person to leave the office. Considering the fact that it was well past nine o’clock, though, it was hardly surprising.

The Man who Triumphed started making his way down the corridor, his handsome features occasionally lit up by the spotlights dotted here and there in the ceiling. Fatigue clearly weighed him down; his shoulders slightly stooped and face drawn with tiredness.

It had been a long week. Several hospital visits aside, Harry had had to deal with the fallout from Hermione’s attack and fortnight long stay at St. Mungo’s. Translation: he’d had to spend the last few days fending off the assorted (and often commendably imaginative) attempts of the media to get the inside scoop on just what had kept his best friend in comatose state for over two weeks. It was only thanks to the impenetrable wards surrounding his department that he’d managed to keep most of them at bay. However, there were still reporters hanging around the Ministry’s entrance hall, desperate for even one word from a member of the illustrious Golden Trio. Ron had taken to sleeping in his office (Luna was more than happy to bring him food and supplies, though Harry suspected that that wasn’t the only thing she was there for), while Hermione’s presence at Grimmauld Place meant that Harry was duty bound to go home as often as he could (though he always waited until most reporters had given up for the day and headed home, with only the most dedicated remaining behind).

But the reporters weren’t even the most persistent people Harry had to put up with. With Hermione having made it clear that she was in no mood to see either one of them, Viktor and Malfoy had taken to staking out his and Ron’s offices, turning up at all hours of the day, demanding to see their estranged girlfriend. Harry had always known that neither man liked taking no for an answer, but even he hadn’t realised just how – _ferocious_ they could be when it came to the former Gryffindor Princess. He had had his office door blasted in so many times that there was now a permanent black outline around the doorway. His ears hadn’t stopped ringing in days and he hadn’t been this on edge since the war. The youngest male Weasley had taken to flinging curses Malfoy’s way every time he turned up, but the latter wasn’t one of the best duellists in Europe for nothing; Ron’s eyebrows still showed no signs of growing back.

At this point, the only thing he could be thankful for was that the location of 12 Grimmauld Place was still only known by a select few. The old wards put in place by countless generations of the House of Black still held strong and, after Hermione had reinforced them with a few of her own, not even an insect could get in or out without prior permission.

But Harry’s attempt to dodge errant boyfriends, reporters, well-meaning but now irritating well-wishers and the numerous gossip-mongers who continued to flock to his office in search of news, wasn’t the only reason for his late nights. Though neither he nor Ron had told Hermione of their latest case, she was still firmly at the forefront of their minds. No one attacked their best friend and got away with it. No one.

Having been the first on the scene of Hermione’s attack (and having had to go against every screaming instinct to take their best friend to St. Mungo’s themselves), they’d been relieved when, less than an hour later, they and their team had tracked and captured the bastard responsible. He had been cowering in a dank shop doorway in Knockturn Alley, begging the proprietor to let him in. But even those who lived on the very edge of the law knew not to cross Harry Potter and Ron Weasley in this post-war landscape, if only for the sake of keeping their livelihood.

Lorcan Yaxley, snivelling little git, was the nephew of the infamous death eater and, with a slicked back ponytail and blunt features, bore a remarkable resemblance to his uncle. Lorcan’s looks were all he had in common with his infamous relative, however, for the moment he was pushed into an interview room back at the Ministry, he had started singing. If they were to take him at his word (and, considering his word wasn’t worth shit, Harry wasn’t all too happy with that), Lorcan was angry at the way in which the Ministry had handled the Yaxleys’ previously considerable finances after the war (they’d been seized as reparation) and, with Hermione being one of the Finance Department’s most prominent workers as well as a member of the Golden Trio, he had decided to take his anger out on her. The fact that Lorcan also held her partly responsible for his uncle’s death at George’s hands over seven years ago certainly hadn’t helped either.

Harry, Ron and their team of Aurors had been all set to cart his arse off to Azkaban to await trial, with the express permission of Minister Shacklebolt. But, after Hermione had woken up and the shocking extent of her injuries had come to light, they’d had to drag him back out of his temporary cell in the bowels of the Ministry and question him again. The little shit had been of no help, though. Apparently, having had no wish to be done for using an unforgiveable against the ‘golden girl’ of Wizarding Britain (Lorcan had spat that part; spittle flying from his mouth almost as fast as Ron had across the room) he had found the ancient, untraceable curse in an old book in Yaxley Hall – something that imitated the effects of _Imperio_ without all the nastily obvious side effects _._ Lorcan had only focussed on its being easier to cover up, and had paid no mind to it being a lot harder to control. And here was the kicker: he had no idea how it actually worked or how to erase its effects.

Harry had had to physically hold Ron back at that part. The red-haired man was 6”4 and well-built with it; Harry’s arms had ached for hours afterwards.  

More than four days after Hermione had revealed the complexities of her curse-induced memory loss, the doctors over at St. Mungo’s still had no idea of how to lift it and were sticking to their original prognosis: that Hermione would recover a lot faster (and a lot better) if she were to move back in with Viktor and Malfoy.

But Hermione wouldn’t hear of it.

Harry came to a standstill in front of the lift, watching as the numbers counted down to his floor. With all that his best friend had on her plate, the last thing he wanted was to tell her about Yaxley’s little experiment. Knowing Hermione, she’d take over the investigation herself, and Harry would rather her spend the time recovering. It was just a shame that-

   “Potter!”

   Harry stiffened at the irritatingly familiar, cut-glass tones echoing around the empty foyer. Shit.

   “Potter!”

   His gaze remained fixed on the countdown that had never seemed slower. He pushed the lift button repeatedly in vain hope that it would speed things up. Meanwhile the click clack of heels against the stone floor sounded closer and closer.

   “Potter!”

   Irritated, Harry turned just as the click-clack came to a stop. Before him, clad in a smart muggle business suit (that quite a few in the wizarding world had taken a shine to since the war), was one of the last people he wanted to see: Pansy Parkinson. The dark-haired woman had her hands on her hips, annoyance in her blue eyes.

   “What is it, Parkinson?” he asked, bluntly. She prodded him sharply with a red-taloned hand.

   “Don’t you ‘what is it, Parkinson’, me,” she hissed as he stared back at her, unmoved. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you all week. How _dare_ you not answer my owls?”

   “Well, in case you haven’t noticed, _Parkinson_ ,” Harry stressed, glaring down at the dark-haired former Slytherin. “I’ve been a little busy, lately.” Pansy’s eyes narrowed at the sarcasm bleeding through his tone.

   “And that’s another thing,” Pansy continued, undeterred. “You were supposed to convince Hermione to go home and what did you do? Had her move in with you! Do you have any idea of what you’ve done?”

   “Provided a safe haven for my best friend?” Sarcasm abound.

   “Viktor and Draco are out of their minds.” Pansy paid as little mind to Harry as a hippo would a fly, prodding him harshly with her nails. “And guess whose house they keep visiting? Mine! All because you’ve barred them from Grimmauld Place. I haven’t slept in _days_.”

   “And that is my problem, how?” Harry asked, green eyes narrowed. “Hermione is my focus right now, not those two.”

   “If that were true, you’d have had her move back in with them. You heard what the doctors said. It’s her best chance to get her memory back.”

   “Oh?” Harry laughed, derisively. “Do _you_ want to be the one to try and convince _Hermione Granger_ to do something she doesn’t want to? The last person who tried that barely escaped with their arse cheeks still attached.”

   “You and Ron are her best friends, Potter,” Pansy spat. “If anyone’s capable of doing it and remaining six feet above ground, it’s you two.” Pansy was trying her level best, but Harry had just about had it. After almost forty-eight hours with no sleep and subsisting on sandwiches and Pepper-Up potion alone, he was done putting up with the storm of bullshit that had been raining down on him all week.

   “You know what, Pansy? If you think we’ve been doing such a shitty job of it, why don’t you come over and try yourself?” He swung back around to face the now open lift and adjusted the overflowing file, before stepping through the doors. When he heard the click-clack of heels stepping into the lift behind him, his heart sank. He hadn’t actually expected Parkinson to take him up on his offer.

Fuck that, what had he been thinking? She was a former Slytherin. Of _course_ , she would use his offer as later protection against Hermione’s formidable temper.

   “I think that’s a fantastic idea, Potter.” Pansy looked like the cat with the ill-gotten cream, milk _and_ cheese. Sighing heavily, Harry pressed the button to take them down to the main foyer.

Oh, well. After fending off ex-boyfriends and reporters, dealing with Yaxley _and_ having the St. Mungo’s staff tell him to leave time and time again – that there was nothing more they could do for Hermione (Harry was someone else who didn’t take no for an answer) – Harry thought that he’d done as much as he could.

Parkinson was Hermione’s problem, now.

….

Humming quietly to herself, Hermione tipped the chopped onions into the frying pan. The delicious smell of frying meat wafted through the huge kitchen as she added oregano and a few chilli peppers to the mix. The kitchen had been one of the rooms most changed by the renovations a few years ago, with a paved stone floor and warm brown accented fittings. Hermione stood at the massive hob; three pans containing rice, meat and steaming vegetables merrily cooking away.

In the days immediately after the war, when the public and press were hankering for anything Golden Trio, Hermione, Harry and Ron had sought refuge in the dark rooms of 12 Grimmauld Place. While Harry and Ron had taken to playing chess game after chess game and watching the television that Hermione had managed to coax into running on waves of magical energy, their female best friend, had taken up cooking. After all the running, hiding and relentless stress of the war, Hermione had needed something that didn’t require her to think: a safe haven that didn’t ask too much of her. Cooking gave her that and, eager to improve on her somewhat shoddy skills, Hermione took to it like a duck to water. By the time she’d devoured the various culinary books she found in the old Black library, the mass hysteria surrounding the trio had died down, somewhat, but Hermione had continued to hone her skills whenever she could. And, over the last few days, she’d had plenty of time to do so.

Hermione had spent the day after moving back into Grimmauld Place unpacking her boxes. Harry, being the lovely best friend that he was, had brought all her essentials: toiletries, clothes, books, as well as her work files. The only bad thing was that she’d had no idea of what her latest case was about - she’d had to relearn everything in the file. And she knew what _that_ meant: either Viktor or Malfoy was involved and, seeing as Viktor was still a seeker for Puddlemere United (she’d confirmed with Ron), that meant that her department had once again requested the services of Malfoy Enterprises.

It also meant that Hermione would have to break her habit of the last week and actually meet up with the Malfoy heir, and sooner rather than later.

Still, she wasn’t going to let that get her down, Hermione thought as she stirred the frying pan with a spatula. She’d realised just last night that the emotional rollercoaster she’d been riding for the last week was down to muggle psychiatrist Kübler-Ross’ five stages of grief. Denial had been first, followed by anger and bargaining. Depression had hit her the day she had moved back into Grimmauld Place, pulling her irresistibly under for longer than any of the other stages. The final stage, acceptance, hadn’t graced Hermione with its presence until late last night, but had brought its good friend, clarity, along with it. What had happened, Hermione had realised, hadn’t been her fault. She hadn’t been attacked for personal reasons, per se; more for her involvement in killing off someone who had no business living and if she was going to have to put up with a comparatively minor inconvenience like forgetting a few things in exchange for it, then that was a price she was willing to pay. Unfair, perhaps, but when had things ever really been fair?

That aside, the guilt over Penelope and Viktor’s break-up, and the role she had apparently played in it, still weighed heavily on her mind. Hermione refused to compound an error by returning to her former, scandalous ways and, as for Viktor and Malfoy, well, they were just going to have to understand that things would be going back to the way she remembered them.

Nodding firmly despite the fact that there was no one to see, Hermione popped a sweet green pepper into her mouth. She chewed for a moment, concentrating on the assorted flavours. Salt, definitely more salt.

Just as she picked up the salt mill and shook it above the steaming vegetables, the sound of the front door unlocking upstairs travelled down to the kitchen. Heavy footfalls were accompanied by a familiar click-clacking on the stairs until, a moment later, the door to the kitchen swung open. Hermione glanced up to see her raven-haired best friend dump a rain-splattered file on the oak side-table and a tall, slender woman enter immediately behind him.

   “Hermione, darling, how are you?” Pansy’s smile was brighter than the overhead lighting, instantly sparking Hermione’s suspicions. The former Slytherin slunk her way across the stone floor, eyes shining with innocence. But Hermione had spent enough time around Pansy to know when she was up to something and, right then, she was up to something.

   “I’m fine, Pansy,” Hermione answered, eyeing the dark-haired woman, carefully. A gasp escaped her as she was swept up in a hug, the other woman clutching her tightly. “Thanks for asking,” Hermione continued when she was finally released. Her eyes narrowed as Pansy held her at arms’ length, the tall woman’s gaze now on the merry hob. Wanting an indication of just what her friend was up to now, Hermione glanced over at the silent green-eyed man now standing on the other side of the island in the centre of the kitchen.

   “She’s trying to convince you to move back in with Malfoy and Viktor.” Harry didn’t even try to feign ignorance, which was no surprise. In fact, for whatever reason, he looked almost gleeful. Pansy whipped around to glare at her betrayer.

   “Thanks a lot, Potter,” she spat, eyes flashing. Rolling her eyes, Hermione turned back to the now cooked meat. She had been having such a great day, too. Beguiling blue eyes turned themselves on her, widened for added dramatic effect. But Pansy would have to get up a hell of a lot earlier to trick Hermione.

   “It’s not going to happen, Pans.” Hermione popped a strip of beef into her mouth, closing her eyes in appreciation at the sudden burst of delicious, full-bodied flavour. Her bliss was interrupted by a heavy, irritated sigh.

   “I don’t see why not, Hermione,” Pansy answered bluntly, hand now on hip. “It’s the best thing for everyone: you’ll get your memory back a lot faster, Draco and Viktor will stop coming round to mine so  I can finally get some sleep and Potter –” she waved a negligent hand in his direction, to which Harry showed no visible reaction, chewing away on a sweet red pepper. “- can go back to whatever he used to do here before you showed up.” Pansy reached for the plate of beef but Hermione snatched it away, annoyed.

   “Well, Harry can ‘go back’ to what he used to tomorrow when I go back to work,” Hermione snapped, tumbling the steamed vegetables onto a warmed plate. Harry looked up, eyebrows shooting up the ceiling in surprise.

   “Already?” he asked, puzzled. “You’ve only been out of St. Mungo’s for a few days.”

   “And I’m bored out of my skull, Harry.” Hermione stooped, opened the oven and removed a warmed dish from its middle rack. Spooning fried rice onto the dish, she continued, “I’m more than ready to get back to work, believe me.” Harry looked a little doubtful, but Pansy, seeing this as an opportunity to reinforce her case, straightened up.

   “And there’s no reason why you can’t use this chance to seize the reins; take back control of your life in every way,” Pansy stated, gesturing with gusto.

   “I’m not moving back in with those two, Pans, so you can just forget it.” Hermione placed the salt and pepper mills besides the food-filled dishes.

   “But-”

   “I said no, Pansy.” And Hermione’s stern expression told the other woman that she meant every word. Pouting with frustration (but by no means giving up. It was virtually a Slytherin rule to understand when it was best to retreat and bide one’s time, and Pansy was up there with the best of them), Pansy fell silent and leant against the pine surface. Thoroughly amused and vindicated, Harry chuckled, nastily, and popped another red pepper into his mouth.

   “Now,” Hermione continued, brightly, picking up the dish of rice. “Who’s hungry?”

 

* * *

 

Well, there we are! Once again, no direct interaction with Viktor or Draco, but that’s what the next few chapters are for.

My muse is spitting out ideas at a ridiculous rate (and they’re eating me out of house and home). I can barely keep with them, so this story is being written even faster than I expected (and the chapters are getting considerably longer, as well).

Expect _V_ sometime next week.

 

Till next time,

**_TBOF._ **


	5. V

 

**V**

* * *

 

“But better to be hurt by the truth than comforted with a lie.”   
― Khaled Hosseini

* * *

 

The lift raced along the tunnels at the speed of a Muggle bullet train. Well accustomed to the swooping feeling it gave her stomach, Hermione merely clutched onto Ron with one hand and held onto the open file she was reading with the other. It was to his credit that the flame-haired man didn’t even flinch; it was common knowledge that Hermione had the grip of a Hippogriff.

Crushed against them on all sides were other Ministry employees, all clearly suffering from the stifling heat; cooling charms were infamously useless in the Ministry’s lifts, cancelled out by the countless other charms already in place. Late summer had brought a heat wave the likes of which hadn’t been seen in years and the only thing keeping Hermione’s mind off it was the file she was currently reading on her latest project.

The lift came to an abrupt stop at the fourth floor, all its occupants lurching forward. Almost lightheaded with gratitude, Hermione rushed forward, pushing past three other employees who were also trying to step out of the lift. She took a deep breath of magically-cooled air, eyes shutting briefly in relief, as Ron shoved his way out of the metal box.

   “Fifty fucking degrees.” Ron was irritated, his freckled face deeply flushed and sweat on his brow. “Never again.”

   “Floo next time?” Hermione asked, reaching into her leather tote and handing Ron a bottle of water. He swigged then laughed, white teeth glinting in the natural lighting that graced the fourth floor.

   “Yeah.” While floo may have had its disadvantages (soot being just one of them), it was an infinitely better option than baking in those glorified ovens.

The two friends made their way through the bustling main foyer, waving every now and then to people they recognised, before turning off onto the third corridor. On the right wall was a sign pointing to the various departments of the fourth floor, including the one Hermione and Ron were headed to. Wide, long and relatively empty, the corridor had thick brown carpet that muffled the sound of their footsteps.

   “Are you sure you’re ready to come back?” Ron asked, throwing the now-empty bottle into a nearby rubbish bin. Resisting the urge to sigh heavily, Hermione gave him a long-suffering glance; it was the third time that day that he’d asked that question. An hour earlier, Ron had shown up to Grimmauld Place to pick her up for work, which she’d appreciated until he had started enquiring after her health with vigilance usually reserved for those on their death bed. At the edge of her tether, she had only just managed to prevent herself from beating him about the head with her bag. The metal hotbox that they’d travelled in for what had seemed like hours hadn’t helped, either.

   “Ron, if I have to spend one more minute in that house, I am going to go crazy and shave off all my hair.”

   “I guess.” A pause. “If only you’d thought about that back at Hogwarts.” Ron sniggered loudly as Hermione gave in and smacked him for his insolence.

   “Shut up, Ronald.” After a final slap for good measure, Hermione turned back to the file, flipping through the assorted pieces of sand-coloured parchment. Ron continued to grin, irrepressibly.

Now that Hermione had the information memorised, she’d found several discrepancies that pointed to one thing: she’d be needing Malfoy’s notes on the project in order to get the whole picture. Needless to say, Hermione wasn’t looking forward to that. While the post-July 2004 Hermione had, no doubt, shared a somewhat – _ahem_ – _different_ relationship with the Malfoy heir, Hermione now had a _pre_ -July 2004 mind-set. Sure, she and Malfoy had worked on several projects since his return from abroad in January 2003, but they were hardly anything other than colleagues – at least to her current mind.

Hermione was the head of the Ministry’s finance department, Malfoy the CEO-in-waiting of Malfoy Enterprises. After the war, the Ministry had made its finance department virtually independent: allowing it to be run in virtually the same way as a Muggle banking firm. In 2002, they’d asked Hermione to run it and she had turned it into a massive success, not only doubling its substantial profits, but also taking care of tax audits, war reparation payments and partnerships with Wizarding Britain’s biggest companies. A year later, Malfoy had returned from his adjourn abroad with no explanation for his absence and taken the corporate world by storm with his incredible run at the helm of ME.

Was Malfoy a competent colleague? Yes. Could she put up with him for a couple of hours - even attend a work event in his company or eat a quick lunch? Yes. But, for reasons better left unsaid, Hermione was in no way one of Malfoy’s adoring fans. And Hermione suspected that merely ‘tolerating his presence’ wasn’t going to be enough for Malfoy.

   “Are you sure you don’t want me to come in with you?” Ron’s whispered question brought Hermione back to the bright corridor and she glanced up to see that she’d reached the glass doors of her department. Beyond them, twenty odd people were in the middle of their work day: working at cubicles, conversing with colleagues and weaving between desks and chairs. She turned back to Ron who was eyeing her, clearly concerned.

   “I’m fine, Ron,” Hermione reassured him, stuffing the file into her already-full tote. But Ron wasn’t convinced.

   “I’ll just come with you to your office,” he continued, blue eyes sincere.

   “Aren’t you already late?” Hermione raised her eyebrows, lips pursing in disapproval. But his clear concern for her well-being still warmed her. Ron waved her question away, knowing that being the deputy Head Auror came with certain perks, one of them being that he could pretty much show up whenever he liked.

   “Look at them, ‘Mione.” Ron pressed his face against the glass, breath steaming up the clean surface. Amused, Hermione followed his gaze. Judging by the fact that several members of her team were still lounging around, chatting, neither she nor Ron had been spotted yet. “They’re like vipers. The minute you step in there, they’ll be all over you.”

Now, Hermione laughed. “Ron, for God’s sake. By now, I’m sure all the fuss has died down. The Prophet didn’t even have an article on me today.” The flame-haired man whipped around, face screwed up in disbelief.

   “You underestimate these people, ‘Mione,” Ron hissed jokingly, but it was clear that he meant every word. “But that is your mistake.” Without another word, he turned and took off down the corridor, black robes sweeping behind him in a manner that would have made the late Severus Snape proud. Laughter burbled up from Hermione’s throat as she watched him turn a bend in the corridor. She knew it was a bad idea to let him watch all those Muggle films.

Holding onto her good mood, Hermione gripped her tote and swung open the glass door. Sometimes, Ron could be so ridiculous.

…

Even to herself, it almost physically hurt Hermione to admit that Ron had been right. It had taken only the distance from the department’s glass doors to her corner office for her colleagues to accost her with question after question. Apparently, the Prophet and all the other rags hadn't succeeded in prising the details about her fortnight-long stay at St Mungo’s from the hospital itself, because the questions she’d been asked frankly bordered on the ridiculous.

   “My friend’s grandmother told me that Lorcan is a werewolf. Is it true that he bit you?”

   “How long were you dead for, Hermione?”

   “- Yeah! How _did_ Harry and Ron bring you back to li-”

   “Never mind that,” shoves someone aside, “Why are you even here? Aren’t you living on borrowed time? I would be in Hawaii if I only had a month to live.”

   “Ch! You didn’t actually _believe_ those lies, did you, Pritchett? Anyway, did you really elope with Draco and Viktor? You go, girl!”

That last one had stopped Hermione in her tracks, her heart skipping a beat. Even though it’d been over a week since she’d first heard about her trio relationship, it was startling to hear it referred to by someone outside her immediate circle. She’d brushed past Ortentia Macmillan and several of her nosiest (and noisiest) friends, trying to make her way to her office, only to followed all the way to her shimmering glass door, accompanied by even more impertinent questions.

It had taken three threats of firing and the _look_ she had given Harry and Ron from time immemorial for the crowd to back off, returning to their desks with downcast faces. Clearly in the absence of truth (the crowd didn’t seem to know anything about her memory loss, which, not being in the mood to answer any of _those_ questions, she was more than thankful for), speculation and rumour had run rampant; journalists had no shame. If there was one thing Hermione had learnt over the years it was that for every advantage that came with being such a prominent figure in the wizarding world, there were at least two disadvantages.

Already tired and wishing that she’d chosen to work from home instead, Hermione had collapsed into her chair and tried to rub away the headache that was tiptoeing its sneaky way to the forefront of her mind. Almost immediately, she’d spotted the new addition to her desk’s photo collection: a snapshot of her, Malfoy and Viktor laughing at the camera. Well, she and Viktor were laughing – Malfoy was looking distinctly unimpressed, though his eyes noticeably softened whenever he looked Photo Hermione’s way.

Hermione had knocked the photo onto its surface with such force that it had been a miracle that the glass hadn’t cracked.

Flustered, it had been another ten minutes before Hermione managed to bring herself to actually start working.

It was now past five o’clock and the day had improved a little. Hermione had gotten two reports done and was well into her third, paying no mind to her grumbling stomach. Unless she had plans to meet up with a friend, she rarely bothered eating lunch, choosing instead to work through the hour. You didn’t get to be the eminent expert on financial matters in the Ministry without hard work and that was something Hermione specialised in.

She signed her name at the bottom of the second report (outlining next year’s budget for the Auror Office), now, ignoring the twinge in her cramped hand. Just as she was dotting the miniscule ‘i’, there was a knock on her door. Surprised, Hermione looked up. Everyone had left about an hour ago, a few looking in to say a quick goodbye before hurrying out, and the office was now thankfully quiet. Maybe one of her colleagues had come back for something.

   “Come in!” she called, returning to the papers before her and stamping her seal onto the envelope. The door swung open but Hermione’s focus remained on her work. She scanned the report that her secretary, Drusella, had handed her just before she had hurried home to her fiancé. It was yet another outlook for the upcoming quarter, one that needed her sign off.

Hermione was so engrossed in the first paragraph that she forgot about the unidentified knocker until two Dragon-hide shoes entered her peripheral vision. None of her colleagues had been wearing Dragon-hide shoes today, and she would know - she’d spent ample time pushing said colleagues out of her way. Frowning, she traced a finger down the page, scanning quickly.

   “Can I help you?” she asked, turning to the second page of the report.

   “I should certainly hope so.” The instantly recognisable, irritatingly distinctive drawl stopped her finger in its tracks. Oh, God.

Hermione looked up to see the infamous Draco Malfoy standing in front of her desk, arms folded and clad in a black muggle suit. One of the last people she expected and one of the last people she wanted to see. This was great.

Just great.

   “Can I help you, Malfoy?” she asked, purposefully returning to her work. Hopefully, he’d get the idea that she didn’t want to see him just yet. Malfoy’s seating himself in the comfortable leather-backed chair in front of her desk indicated that he either didn’t get the idea or simply didn’t care.

Knowing Malfoy, it was the latter.

   “That little missive of yours was pathetic.” A smirk on his face, he looked annoyingly comfortable, the prat. “I do hope you’re not losing your touch.”

   “And I had hoped that my ‘little missive’, as you put it, would have made things clear.” Hermione finally looked up but kept a hold of her eagle feather quill. Malfoy’s eyes fell to it for a moment, darkening to the colour of slate, before they returned to Hermione’s.

   “The only thing it made clear, Hermione,” Malfoy drawled sneeringly, as he steepled his fingers, “is that you have become a coward in your old age.” Irritated, now, Hermione put down her quill. How dare he?

   “Oh, no, Malfoy,” she replied cuttingly. “I think cowardice is more down _your_ alley.” Her words said one thing, but her tone and the absence of warmth in her eyes made it clear that they held a deeper meaning. The silver became storm clouds. Malfoy’s knuckles whitened and his mouth thinned into a line.

   “If you think that’s going to get you out of working with me, then you are clearly mistaken about more than just one thing,” he hissed, anger barely withheld.

   “There _isn’t_ any need for us to have to meet up, Malfoy,” Hermione answered. “We are perfectly capable of doing the work separately and combining our efforts at the end.” She jumped as Malfoy unleashed harsh, barked laughter.

   “That isn’t why you sent that thing and you know it.” Malfoy fell silent, visibly annoyed. Hermione couldn’t think of anything to say. She’d come up with the idea of their working individually on the project earlier and had had Drusella send Malfoy’s office a missive telling him of the change in plans. Not that she’d tell _him_ , but she knew she’d been wrong in hoping that it would work. If there was anything the last week had taught her it was that neither Malfoy nor Viktor were going to allow her just to fade out of their lives without a fight.

   “I’m not ready to see either one of you,” Hermione said quietly. “I thought you knew that.”

   “When _are_ you going to be ready, Hermione?” Malfoy was irritated. “Because it’s become very obvious that, if you had your way, you’d never see us again and we’re not going to let that happen.” Hermione’s fidgeting with her quill was her only sign of weakness, her face steadfast.

   “You have to give me time, Malfoy. This isn’t exactly easy for me.”

   “And do you think this has been easy for us?” Malfoy’s raised voice startled Hermione, his silver eyes piercing its way through her. “Do you think you lying there, comatose, for two weeks was just a walk in the park? That we were overjoyed when the woman we love woke up without a single meaningful recollection of us? How do you think _we_ felt?”

   “Do not shout at me, Malfoy-”

   “I understand that you’re upset and confused, Hermione.” Malfoy’s voice dropped only a few decibels, but it was his uncharacteristically sincere expression that surprised Hermione. “But no one has even thought about how Viktor and I feel about all this. You haven’t let us so much as _talk_ to you in over a week. How can we move past this, when-”

  “What makes you think I even _want_ to move past this, Malfoy?” Hermione’s voice finally came careening back, apologising fervently for being stuck in traffic. “What I’ve been doing with you two, it isn’t – it isn’t _right_.” Malfoy stilled.

  “Isn’t right?” Malfoy asked through gritted teeth. His features looked like they had been carved from granite, his eyes from the rock beside it. Fingers curling into themselves for protection from the now frosty temperatures, Hermione continued:

   “No, it isn’t.” She softened her voice. “A three-way relationship it isn’t – _normal_ and-” she pushed past Malfoy’s growl, “and what we did to Penelope… I can’t be a part of that, don’t you understand?” Unbeknownst to Hermione, her brown eyes were large and pleading in her small face, which had paled considerably. Also unbeknownst to her, Draco’s heart was crumbling under almost a month’s worth of anxiety.

But Hermione didn’t know any of this because she was neither psychic nor privy to Malfoy’s thoughts, like he was to hers.

   “You should give us a chance, Hermione.” Draco’s voice was firmer, quieter now, but also bleaker. Unconsciously, something echoed in the back of Hermione’s mind. “How else do you plan to get back your memory?” Hermione was silent for a moment, contemplating his words. She’d thought the answer to this through but she had yet to admit it aloud, not even to Harry or Ron.

   “I don’t know if I want to, Malfoy,” she answered softly, eyes troubled. She looked up now to see him staring back at her, eyes now unreadable. “It would do more harm than good.”

   “All the things we’ve been through, how much you love us, the projects we’ve completed,” oddly, he sneered those last words, “You’ll never know about them, Hermione, and if there’s one thing you hate, it’s not knowing something.” And if Hermione hadn’t already suspected they’d had a deep relationship before then, that last sentence hammered it home. He _knew_ her. _Really_ knew her. Maybe…

No.

   “Well, if you won’t move back in with us, at least agree to do this damned project with me.” Seeing that the door had been pried slightly open, Malfoy took his chance. “We’ve only got a few weeks to go, anyway.” For the first time, Hermione was torn. Malfoy was right, she _couldn’t_ stand not knowing and she had so many questions. How Malfoy, with all his Muggle issues, had decided to start dating her, what exactly had happened with Penelope and Viktor, how Hermione had agreed to a triad relationship in the first place. But at the same time, there were some things one was better off not knowing. Could forgetting all about Malfoy and Viktor have been a blessing in disguise?

But she’d never know unless…

   “Fine. We’ll work on that wretched project together.” Hermione reluctantly gave in. When a ghost of a smile crossed Malfoy’s lips, she rushed on, “But only for the next few weeks. After that….” Malfoy waved an aristocratic hand.

   “We’ll just see about that, Hermione.” Clearly satisfied, Malfoy was rising from his seat and adjusting his suit jacket (Hermione wondered just when he’d started wearing those), when a knock came at the door.

   “Oh, God, who is it, now?” Hermione’s head dropped into her hands. That headache from earlier was making a stealthy comeback, a pulsing starting up at the base of her skull. “Don’t tell me it’s Viktor. I just managed to get rid of one of you.” She was only half joking.

   “Truly hilarious,” Malfoy replied dryly. “But, no. He has an away match in Manchester.” Now that he mentioned it, Hermione did recall Ron mentioning something about it at breakfast. So, then who was that at the door?

The knock came again,

   “Come in!” Hermione called, reclining back in her wheelie chair. When the door remained closed, Malfoy rolled his eyes and walked over to open it himself. Standing there, hands clasped behind his back, was Ernie Macmillan. He looked distinctly uncomfortable, his gaze flickering between Hermione and a still Malfoy. There was an odd beat, before he stepped into the room. Hermione watched, confused, as he tried to edge past the platinum-haired man, only for the latter not to give an inch. Instead, Malfoy turned his head and gave Hermione an enigmatic glance.

   “Tomorrow, Hermione,” he ordered, before turning back to face the fidgeting, sweaty man before him. Hermione frowned as the two men sized one another up like two circling tigers. Well, more like one circling tiger and a helpless gazelle. Just as she was about to speak up, Ernie shifted to the side.

   “Malfoy, I didn’t know you’d-” He was cut off by the icy, sneering glance Malfoy sent his way, before the pureblood heir swept past him as if he were no longer even there. Visibly discomfited, Ernie cleared his throat a couple of times, eyes wide, the gazelle that just escaped certain death by the skin of its teeth.

Hermione Granger, meet your ex-boyfriend.

Because that was what he was. Sure, in her mind she was still dating him, but, in reality – in August 2005 -, she was now with Malfoy and Viktor. And there was no way Ernie knew that he was the last man she remembered sleeping with.

Another root left exposed to the harsh elements of Mother Nature.

   “What can I do for you, Ernie?” Hermione ignored the odd jolt she got at seeing Ernie for the first time in what felt like only weeks to her, but what must have been months to him. After all, according to Harry, he’d been working abroad for some time, now.

He’d actually done it.

Ernie jumped and turned to Hermione, as if surprised at her finding her in the room. He took another step forward, clearly gathering his composure, before answering, “I’m here to pick up Ortentia. Do you know where I can find her?” Of course, his sister. Ortentia Macmillan was one of the hardest working people in Hermione’s department, one that she would seriously have to consider promoting soon or risk losing to a private company.

   “She’s not here, Ernie.” Hermione’s eyes scanned Ernie’s damp face for any sign of regret, loss or even discomfit that didn’t have to do with Malfoy’s brush off. But she got nothing.

No surprise there.

   “She left about an hour ago,” she continued, returning to her papers, inexplicably disappointed. By now, it was irrational of her to be: she knew what Ernie was like. But her heart and mind were two different things, try as she might to make it otherwise. Having recovered sufficiently, Hermione looked up as Ernie dusted down his robes – a nervous habit that had always irritated her. “What are you doing back in London?”

   “I have a week off and thought I’d spend it with family.” Ernie’s tone was as pompous as it had been back at Hogwarts, his chest visibly inflated by self-importance. “Well, I’ll just be going then,” He looked about to say something, but, clearly deciding against it, turned and walked to the door, before pausing. “I heard you were in the hospital. I hope that you’re doing better.” He turned back to look at Hermione and _now_ she saw regret - regret tinged with sadness. Despite her earlier irritation, her stomach dropped a few centimetres. Any hope that they’d ended things on a good note raced over to the fireplace and took the Floo.

Without waiting for an answer, Ernie nodded briefly and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. Unable to hold it together any longer, Hermione collapsed against the back of her chair, reeling from what she had just had to accept.

She could no longer pretend to herself that Penelope Clearwater had been the only one hurt by she, Malfoy and Viktor’s relationship. Going by the look on Ernie’s face (and a helpful dose of the women’s intuition she had never believed in), the former Ravenclaw wasn’t the only one who had been cheated on.

…

* * *

 

 _And that_ ’ _s V!_

Longer than the other chapters at almost 4,000 words, this is more of what you can expect from here on out, though it will still be a slow build up. We still have a long way to go.

This chapter took quite a lot out of me! LOL! This story is a lot angstier than I expected (though it might not seem that way right now), somewhat more twisted with moral issues I never thought would come up. Still, I’m more excited for this than I have been for any of my other stories.

Well, let me know what you think. I know a lot of you were itching for some action with D&V and we finally got there. Expect Viktor to make an entrance sooner rather than later.

Till next week,

**_TBOF._ **


	6. VI

**VI**

* * *

“I only have ‘yes’ men around me. Who needs ‘no’ men?”   
― Mae West

* * *

_The house is dark and blistering cold; her breaths puff out before her, wisps of smoke further clouded by dust. Even in the dim light, she can see the rot and decay on the embroidered walls. Her hand brushes against one now, only for a clump of wallpaper to come off and fall onto the carpet, noiselessly._

_A distinct, rancid smell burns her nostrils - the nauseating smell of burning flesh. Hermione walks faster now, her bare toes curling into themselves at the carpet that has become red floorboards._

_Suddenly, a haunting shriek pierces through the house and Hermione’s heart stops. She walks faster._

_The shrieking continues, pain echoing through its sound._

_Faster._

_The shrieks are pleas, now. Pleas to stop. Please stop._

_Faster._

_The floorboards are wet and Hermione looks down. Below, staining her feet, is a river of blood._

_A haunting scream echoes around the corridor._

_…_

Hermione barely stopped her forehead from hitting the table. Her eyes felt like they’d been used to clean a beach pier, and she could fit half her worldly possessions in the bags under them. She was exhausted, drained from the nightmare that had kept her awake for the rest of the night. After her own choked screams had woken her up, the pillow muffling them so that Harry hadn’t heard, she had given up on sleep as a bad job (the whole Ernie thing certainly hadn’t helped either) and hidden from her demons in the kitchen.

This check-up, taking place a week after she had left St. Mungo’s for Grimmauld Place, had been going just great so far (note the sarcasm). Dr Besette’s incessant questions only served as an improvement (again, sarcasm), with the woman asking about anything and everything under the sun – even about things that Hermione, quite frankly, didn’t think concerned her.

Sensing her irritation, Pansy shot a sympathetic glance her way, her dark hair reflecting the harsh hospital lighting. But Hermione was already too far gone for it to be helpful.

  “Have you resumed your usual sleeping pattern?” Dr Besette asked, shuffling through the pieces of parchment on her lap.

  “Define ‘usual sleeping pattern’.” Hermione knew what Dr Besette was talking about, but she refused to make it easier for her. If Hermione had to answer such a question, the good doctor was going to have to be embarrassingly specific.

  “Have you, Mr Krum and Mr Malfoy slept together since last week?” There was a light blush on the doctor’s cheeks and Hermione felt a grim satisfaction bubbling underneath the mortification.

  “No, we haven’t.”

  “And you haven’t moved back in with them?”

  “No.”

  “Have you met with them both in a casual setting?”

  A pause. “Malfoy showed up at my office, yesterday.”

Dr Besette laid down her quill and removed her horn-rimmed glasses, eyeing Hermione tiredly. “Miss Granger, there is little we can do to help you if you don’t try to resume your usual routine as best as you can.”

  “We’re working on a project together, Malfoy and I,” Hermione volunteered, but the doctor didn’t look impressed.

  “That’s not good enough, Miss Granger. The parts of your memory that are missing centre on Mr Krum and Mr Malfoy. In order to regain those memories, you are going to have to resume your previous routine: eat where you used to eat, sleep where – and with whom – you used to sleep, live where you used to live.”

  “It’s a little difficult, Doctor.” Pansy jumped in. “She and Malfoy used to have a… complicated relationship.” Hermione shot a warning glance at her friend. The last thing she wanted was for her business to become public knowledge, but Pansy didn’t seem to notice, gazing innocently at the bespectacled, robe-clad woman before them.

  “We know next to nothing about your unique condition, Miss Granger,” Dr Besette explained, dark eyes worried. “There hasn’t been an incident with this curse since records began and we are flying blind, here. Since its purpose was to simulate the effects of _Imperio_ , we have no idea why you have been affected in this way. For all we know, you could never regain those memories at all or, even worse, you could regress, losing every memory you have. All we can do is tell you to move back into your former home and resume your old life.” Heart sinking, Hermione nodded. She could regress? She was already having trouble with losing the comparatively few memories she had. What would happen if she could no longer remember anything else? If she couldn’t even recognise her own face?

Seeing that Hermione was visibly shaken, Dr Besette sought to comfort her. “Even though you’ve told me that your condition hasn’t improved, it doesn’t seem that it has worsened, either, so there is no need to be alarmed just yet. But you should definitely think about moving back in with your boy-,” at Hermione’s look of censure, she cut herself off, “ _ex_ -boyfriends.”

…

  “What a remarkable coincidence, Hermione,” Malfoy drawled as Hermione stepped into the lift. “I was just coming up to see you.” Too annoyed by recent discoveries, Hermione didn’t have the energy to think up a clever rejoinder.

  “Malfoy, always a pleasure.”

  “So I’ve been told.” Hermione rolled her eyes. She didn’t think she’d ever met someone as arrogant as Malfoy, even on his most humble day. And this was one of the men she had been shagging on a regular basis?

Dear God.

The lift’s rapid movement sent that annoying swooshing feeling straight to Hermione’s thankfully empty stomach. She could feel Malfoy’s gaze boring into the back of her head but she refused to satisfy him by acknowledging it. The already musty air was even heavier with silence, filled with Hermione’s doubts and Malfoy’s smugness. It’s not that she was actually considering moving in with him and Viktor, oh no. But the fact that St. Mungo’s had no idea what was wrong with her - that scared her a little. It also made her a little more open to spending some time with them. It certainly couldn’t hurt.

The lift dinged to her floor.

  “I brought you a present.” Malfoy stepped forward, hands tucked into the pockets of his suit jacket. He was all in grey, today, with a white shirt and slate-coloured tie.

  “What?” Hermione frowned at him. But his gaze had turned to the opening doors. There, clad in navy-blue robes, was Viktor.

  “Hermione.” Viktor’s smile was even brighter than the charmed sunlight streaming in through the windows (a modification Hermione had insisted on when she had joined the Finance department, claiming that it improved morale if workers could see the outside world, even if it weren’t actually ‘real’ due to them being hundreds of metres underground).

  “Viktor, what are you doing here?” Hermione gasped as Malfoy effectively pushed her out of the lift. She brushed away his hands even as her eyes took in the tall and dark Bulgarian standing before her.

  “I come from practice. Ve have lunch,” he said simply, dark eyes raking over her slender form. Malfoy, appearing unfazed by Hermione’s earlier brush-off, stood silently by, watching.

  “But Malfoy and I were just about to-”

  “We’ll do that later, Hermione,” Malfoy butted in, hands still in his pockets.

  “Is not like vork is going anywhere, mila.” Viktor was firm. “And knowing you, you haff not eaten, yet.” Hermione’s stomach was grumbling at her and she _had_ promised herself to spend more time with them. But the potential for awkwardness was so great…

  “Come, Hermione.” Viktor stepped forward, a small smirk quirking his full lips. “I know great place for fish and chips.” Hermione narrowed her eyes. He had always known her weakness for the moreish delight, damn him to hell.

  “Fine.”

…

  “See, mila.” Viktor spooned tartar sauce over his breadcrumb-coated haddock. “Is good to get out of stuffy office.”  Hermione glanced up from her full plate loaded with thick-cut chips and flaky cod to see Viktor smiling winsomely at her and Malfoy eyeing her carefully, his own plate untouched.

  “It is,” Hermione conceded. “Thank you.” Viktor nodded.

  “Ve have not had lunch together in too long, Hermione,” Viktor said quietly. Hermione wasn’t quite sure what to say. Up until last June (and, she assumed, even more recently than that), it had been common practice for she and Viktor to eat lunch together, meeting up at least thrice a week to try out various restaurants and eateries. As of last March, Malfoy had begun to join them, suggesting other places that the two hadn’t even heard of, often taking them to different spots all over Europe.

If Hermione were being completely honest, having enjoyed their company (Malfoy’s more bregrudgingly), she _had_ been missing their get-togethers. Viktor was one of the few people who could drag her away from her desk for a meal.

  “Do we still do this, then?” Hermione asked. If she were the one asking questions, she’d be less likely to be asked questions – particularly about where she had been before she’d met Malfoy in the lift. Her St Mungo’s check-up was off limits, as far as Hermione was concerned.

She watched as the two men visibly reacted to the first question she had asked about their life together, exchanging quick glances.

  “Of course,” Viktor answered, forking some fish into his mouth. “Is tradition.”

  “Along with other, more _entertaining_ activities,” Draco murmured, grey eyes darkening and a smirk twisting his lips. A searing heat flooded Hermione’s cheeks but she chose to ignore his innuendo-laden comment. Viktor sent a warning glance his way but Malfoy didn’t seem apologetic in the least.

Hermione considered herself lucky that the other diners didn’t seem to have heard a thing.

The Bay, a popular seafood restaurant that had apparently opened up back in April, was bustling with customers there for the lunch-hour rush, despite it being well past two o’clock. Viktor had apparated all three of them there almost half an hour ago, claiming that it served the best fish and chips in London. And, after having devoured almost half her stuffed plate in less than ten minutes, Hermione had to agree with him.

She and Viktor returned to eating for a moment, Hermione’s cheeks still heated from the blush that had coloured them a deep red. God, Malfoy could be so crass.

  “What did Macmillan want?” At Malfoy’s question, Hermione briefly stopped chewing. Ernie’s visit was one of the last things she wanted to think about.

  “His sister, Ortentia, works in my department. He was looking for her,” Hermione explained, focussing on chewing and swallowing normally and hoping that that would bring an end to the conversation. But Malfoy wasn’t satisfied.

  “So, he’s back in the country, then?” Hermione looked up to find that Malfoy’s silver eyes were fixed steadily on her, demanding answers.

  “For the next week or so, yes.” Finally, Malfoy seemed satisfied, leaning back against the leather-backed bench. He and Viktor were seated side-by-side, Hermione across the table from them. His plate was still untouched and Hermione remembered that Malfoy detested fried food, claiming that it ‘insulted his palate to consume such lesser produce’. Hermione frowned at that as the three fell back into silence. She continued cutting, chewing and swallowing the delicious fare, even as her suspicions from last night’s encounter with the former Hufflepuff crept back into her mind. Hermione tried to push them aside, focus on finishing her food and getting back to the office where work would provide a welcome distraction, but, eventually, they became too much.

  “I cheated on him, didn’t I?” A pin could have shattered the balloon of silence at their table and none of them would have noticed. Viktor looked distinctly uneasy, while Malfoy scowled down into his plate.

  “Define ‘cheated’.”

  “Malfoy.” Hermione’s tone was one of warning. Now was not the time for his games.

  “Only technically,” he allowed.

  “What other way is there?” Hermione was despairing. Her heart sank as her suspicions were confirmed. She had cheated on Ernie Macmillan, one of the quintessential ‘good guys’. God, her morals had really gone to hell over the last year, hadn’t they?

  “Hermione, there vere other circumstances,” Viktor explained gently, dark eyes soft. “You alone not to blame. Macmillan not innocent in all this.” But Hermione was well past the point of no return, self-recrimination settling down right next to Guilt, who had set up its own bed last night.  

  “I always swore that I would _never_ do something like that.” Hermione sounded choked. “No matter how bad things got, no matter how tempted I was, I would _never_ betray someone like that.”

  “Hermione-”

  “Oh, don’t worry, Malfoy, I don’t blame you two,” Hermione continued, mouth full of half-chewed food. “This was my fault. I am the one who should have kept my legs closed.”

  Viktor coughed on his mouthful of chips.

  “And what about Penelope?” Hermione asked, looking up now. Both Viktor and Malfoy were silent, watching her carefully. “Did you – did we-”

  “That is complicated, also,” Viktor answered quietly, eyes sincere. Malfoy leaned forward, his elbows now on the table (Hermione couldn’t help but wonder what his parents would think about that).

   “Don’t judge yourself without knowing the full story, Hermione,” Malfoy told her, oddly gently. But that did little to ease Hermione’s concerns.

  “But-”

  “Trust us, mila,” Viktor took up. “There vas good reason for vhat ve did.”

  “Tell me, then.” At Hermione’s demand, Viktor and Malfoy exchanged glances, seeming to have a full conversation without saying a word. After a moment, they turned back to her, looking oddly determined.

   “Sure,” Malfoy said, in a manner so bright that it should have set off Hermione’s warning signals. But she was too concentrated on finally getting some answers to the questions that had haunted her exile to the kitchen earlier that morning.

  “Okay, so-”

  “After you move back in with us.” Hermione’s mouth gaped open as Malfoy smirked at her in a manner so smug, it deserved its own tuxedo. Viktor grinned cheekily as he popped a chip into his mouth, shaking some more salt over the few still on his plate.

  “Excuse me?” She was disbelieving.

  “Move in vith us, get answer. Is simple.” Hermione’s mouth remained open at the sheer nerve of the two men.

  “I will most certainly _not_ be moving back in with you,” Hermione stated implicitly, her voice raised. The pair at the next table glanced over, but, for once, Hermione didn’t notice, so flabbergasted was she at the sudden turn of events.

  “Then you will never know.” Malfoy leaned back against the bench once more, eyes glinting mischievously. Eyes narrowed, Hermione watched as Viktor continued to enjoy his meal, complete with noises of enjoyment – exaggerated, she was sure. How dare they pull something like this? Clearly she had been wrong last night in thinking Malfoy (and, by association, Viktor) knew her, because they seemed to think that they were going to get away with this.

Oh, how misguided of them.

  “You _are_ going to tell me,” she informed them firmly, giving them the Look that had gotten her her way time and time again over the years.

  “Sure. Ve vill come by for bags tomorrow.” Viktor finished his chips with a flourish and returned to his fish.

  “Over your dead bodies, Viktor.”

  “Then you von’t get answer and you vill stew,” Viktor stated matter-of-factly. “You are Hermione Gran-ger. Is vhat you do.” Irritated both at the way they didn’t appear ruffled in the slightest at her Look _and_ the fact that he was annoyingly right (Hermione would probably spend the next day or so ‘stewing’ over the entire situation), Hermione huffed and sat back. For the first time since she’d woken in the hospital almost two weeks ago, Malfoy’s eyes lit up with laughter, mouth quirking up in something other than a smirk.

  “And don’t bother asking Potluck and the Wet Nurse because they don’t know a thing.” Hermione glared at them both for a moment, contemplating her next move. But stubborn is as stubborn does…

  “I’m not moving back in.”

  “Then ‘stew’.”

Annoyed beyond all belief now, Hermione watched as Viktor polished off both his plate and Malfoy’s as the blond man beside him watched her the entire time, a smirk once again firmly in place.

…

Hanging around with Malfoy had made Viktor decidedly Slytherin, Hermione decided as she hung up her pencil skirt in her wardrobe that night. Sure, she had never been able to boss Viktor around (him being just as stubborn as she was, if not even more so), but she had been able to convince him round to her way of thinking when the occasion called for it. Of course that was back before Malfoy came into the picture, showing up in Britain just a few days after Viktor did and disrupting years of friendship.

The Golden Years, as Hermione would now refer to them.

She had gone to them, cap-in-hand, desperate for information about her _own_ life and they had used it as an opportunity to blackmail her? She could have quite cheerfully throttled them both. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have thought that they’d known what Dr Besette had told her that morning. But there wasn’t any way they could have, not unless…

Pansy.

Hermione slammed her oak wardrobe doors shut in anger. Damn Parkinson to Hell.

The rest of the day hadn’t gone much better. Annoyed with both men, Hermione had told Malfoy in no uncertain terms to return to his office and complete what he could there – alone; they would reconvene tomorrow. With a sweeping bow (that Hermione was sure was done mockingly), he had followed her instructions, heading back to his office in Mayfair while Viktor had returned to Dorset, where a Puddlemere United training session awaited.

No one had been more surprised than Hermione when Viktor had transferred from the Vratsa Vultures to Puddlemere United in March 2003. Having given up on the world-renowned seeker as a lost cause back in 2000, the team were ecstatic to have him and, under his captaincy, had gone on to win both the League and European cup. Hermione had just been happy to have her friend back in the country, despite his now constant companion, a certain, annoying blond-haired man.

Though, at this present time, Hermione would have quite happily packed both of them back to Bulgaria, friendship be damned. Pansy could go, too, as she definitely wouldn’t be missed.

Exhausted from the day’s events, Hermione flopped onto her bed, clad in a white t-shirt that she had commandeered from Harry’s wardrobe (the white men’s shirt that she had apparently worn to bed up until her accident was no longer an option, for obvious reasons). It was almost ten o’clock and she’d only just gotten back from the Ministry, her work keeping her there until just half an hour ago. Okay, so work and her desire to keep herself as busy as possible. Despite Malfoy and Viktor’s assurances that there was a genuine explanation for her scandalous, treacherous ways, the guilt still ate away at her. She couldn’t get Ernie’s hurt eyes out of her mind; they had earmarked the corner of every piece of parchment like sun-glare.

And to think Viktor and Malfoy wouldn’t help ease that guilt, even though they were they only ones who could. ‘ _What the Hell were you thinking shacking up with those two, Past Hermione?’_ she asked herself through mentally gritted teeth.

At least she had the promise of a good night’s sleep to comfort her. She knew from past experience that, despite her stressful and annoying day, the nightmare wouldn’t be back tonight. It only paid a visit every few months or so.

Very different to the nightly visits it had paid her in the months following the war.

Fatigue, beguiling and seductive as the Dance of the Seven Veils, crept over her limbs, weighing them down. Despite the fact that she had yet to crawl under the covers, Hermione let her eyes drift closed.

She’d just rest for a minute. Yep, just a minute. Then she’d get up and ….

Get up and…

….

  _“Nova Scotia?” Hermione asks, reeling in disbelief. “You want me to move with you to Nova Scotia?”_

_“It’s a great place, Hermione,” Ernie explains defensively. “You could easily transfer to the Canadian Ministry and it’s a good place to raise kids.” Hermione holds up a hand to halt his flow, laughter burbling up in her throat. Surely he’s joking._

_“Kids? I’m only 24, Ernie. I’m not interested in having kids right now and I’m certainly not interested in transferring to the Canadian Ministry - not after all the hard work I’ve put into my department.” Frustrated, Ernie rises from the table, picking up his only half-empty plate._

_“There’s no reason why you can’t work your magic over in Canada, too, Hermione.” Hermione lets an involuntary laugh escape her._

_“I don’t want to, Ernie. How can you just spring something like this on me?” Ernie turns back, plate still in hand. The twelve-seat dining table that he insisted on buying for the kitchen is immense between them, almost as solid as the tension quickly filling the room._

_“I was only told about this today-_ ”

  “ _And you want me to make a decision by when exactly?” Hermione stands from her seat, irritation firing up her nerves. She gathers her plates noisily, the china clinking together._

_“A few weeks, maybe more.” Hermione snorts in irritation as Ernie rushes on, “This is such a great opportunity, Hermione.”_

_“Great for you, maybe.” Hermione walks over to the sink, almost throwing her plates into it. “What about me?”_

_“You can come with me.” Ernie is almost pleading but Hermione isn’t interested._

_“How could you agree to something like this without even telling me?” Hermione shakes her head in disbelief. “Not even an owl, a quick note – nothing.” Ernie moves to stand beside her, arms circling around her slender form, but Hermione steps away, moving back to the table to pack up all the paraphernalia Ernie insists they drag out every time they eat._

_Paraphernalia she always ends up being the one to clean._

_“I thought you’d be happy for me. You’re always talking about how much I deserve a promotion. This is it.”_

_“Well, excuse me for thinking that that promotion would be to somewhere within a thousand-mile radius,” Hermione answers bitingly, shoving one last asparagus spear into her mouth and chewing furiously._

_“Hermione-_ ”

  “ _No, Ernie. You should have asked me before you accepted it. We just moved in together; we’re supposed to make these decisions as a team.” Ernie plunged his dishes into the soapy water, droplets staining his blue shirt._

_“You’re making this more difficult than it has to be.”_

_“You’re asking me to leave my entire life behind to come with you to some godforsaken country, just so you can satisfy your thankless bosses,” Hermione spat, anger welling up inside her like droplets of blood from an untended wound._

_“No, I’m asking you to give us a chance to make a fresh start. Somewhere that isn’t tainted by_ his _ghost-_ ”

  “ _Do_ not _bring him into this. What about my friends, my family-_ ”

  “ _Well, it’s not as if you really have a family.” At Ernie’s thoughtless words, Hermione freezes._

_“What?” Her tongue lies heavy in her mouth. Ernie already looks as if he regrets his unnecessarily harsh words._

_“I’m sorry, Hermione. I didn’t mean-“_

_“It doesn’t matter,” Hermione cuts him off, returning to cleaning the congealed sauce out of its boat._

_“But-_ ”

  “ _Leave it.” This time, even Hermione is surprised by the bitterness in her tone. She and Ernie stare at each other, the air heavy with all that has been said. All that has gone unsaid._

_..._

Gasping, Hermione sat up and banged her forehead against the pine headboard. She moaned in pain, made even worse by the sharp stab the dream had sent through her head.

No, not a dream, she realised. A memory.

Well, wasn’t that a kick in the head?

* * *

 

 

_A little later than promised but here, nevertheless. At over 4,000 words, it’s also even longer than last week’s instalment (this is the vein we shall be continuing on in)._

Well, we have some interaction between Hermione, Draco and Viktor for the first time since _I_ and I hope it lived up to expectations.

Let me know what you think. 

Anyway, I’m also working on a fic for the ‘Hermione Smut’ challenge over on LJ and it’s going really well. It hasn’t affected my work on _TG_ at all, so don’t worry about that.

If anyone wants to friend me over on LJ, my username is ‘Tha_Phoenix’ over there (just add the livejournal . com and head on over).

Till next week,

**_TBOF._ **

 


	7. VII

**VII**

* * *

“When you've suffered a great deal in life, each additional pain is both unbearable and trifling”   
― Yann Martel

* * *

“Crap!” Irritated, Hermione grabbed her wand and cast a quick _Evanesco_ on her spilt coffee. Having already failed to make a cup successfully three times (salt rather than sugar in the first, the second had been too watery, and the third was left to cool for too long and ended up stone cold), she had been nigh ecstatic to have finally made one that was drinkable, and now this. It was enough to make a girl want to retreat back to the warm comfort of her bed.

Too bad that, lately, sleep hadn’t been an option for her.

After waking up from that dream, Hermione had spent the night in fitful sleep, returning to consciousness seemingly every few minutes. She’d finally given up on it as a bad job, choosing instead to spend the rest of the night finishing up her notes for next week’s meeting. It was just a shame that they were the only productive thing to have been done over the last few hours, especially as she hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in what seemed like weeks.

Shivering, Hermione tapped her wand twice on the coffee maker, turning it on for the fifth time. At this early hour, the kitchen was like an ice locker, the cold of the paved stone floor making her toes turn into themselves for protection. The timed warming charms weren’t due to kick in until 8am, which was over an hour from now, and Hermione didn’t want to risk messing them up by casting one now. So, she’d just have to freeze.

Hermione hopped up onto the marble countertop, waiting for the coffee-maker to finish its work. She still wasn’t sure how to feel about her dream. On one hand, she was glad that she’d finally remembered something, while on the other, the memory itself left her a little sickened. A few days ago, she’d been able to remember as far as Ernie’s plea for her to join him in Nova Scotia, but no more. It had been almost as if her memory was a torn piece of paper, her ability to recall greater parts of some events than others like its jagged edges, and to have another piece suddenly glued back on – well, it was startling to say the least.

Hours after, her head still pounded.

She also couldn’t ignore the strong possibility that her lunch with both Viktor and Malfoy had probably sparked the return of that particular memory; one that she was sure was connected to their affair. As irritated as she was with them, it was clear that Dr Besette had been right: spending time with them was indeed the key to regaining her memories.

What Ernie had said had her most surprised, though. She had never known that he could be so - _cruel_ , especially when he knew how badly saying something like that would have hurt her.

Still hurt her, because she had effectively been hearing his words for the first time.

Not that his saying that would have been sufficient excuse for her to cheat on him, because Hermione was dead sure that she wouldn’t have taken it as that.

But then again, had you asked her last June if she would have considered dating either Viktor or Malfoy, her answer would have been a definitive ‘ _Hell no_ ’.

A plume of steam from the coffee-maker brought Hermione back round to the present, and she hopped off the counter and poured herself her fifth mug. From now on, she told herself, she was only going to concentrate on one issue at a time. Ernie’s being in London for the next week, probably showing up at her workplace every now and then to meet his sister, couldn’t be allowed to get to her. So she was back in the frame of mind she had been when they had dated over a year ago. So she’d been reminded of one of the points of contention in their relationship. So she’d have to spend even more time with Viktor and Malfoy now that it was clear that doing so was working. Hermione was more than capable of making it through the rest of the week, she was sure.

Nodding firmly, Hermione took a large gulp of her steaming coffee. Her tongue recoiled in protest, but she barely felt the burn (sleep deprivation was good for one thing, it turned out). She was going to go to work, work with Malfoy and keep her cool. Over her cold dead body would she show him just how annoyed she was with him and Viktor over their refusal to tell her the story of their affair. In turn, she wouldn’t tell them that she’d remembered something, and, yes, she _was_ aware of how childish she was being. She just didn’t care.

If she had survived a year on the run being pursued by a megalomaniac, then she could definitely survive this.

…

  “Malfoy, I swear to God, if you change that proposal one more time-”

  “Don’t be so hard-headed, Hermione. It’s better and you know it.”

  “How is it better? Because you say so?”

  “Well, I was going to list several different reasons, but that alone seems good enough; so, yes, because I say so.”

Hermione gritted her teeth and clenched her fists in anger, dangerously close to losing it. Malfoy, on the other hand, appeared the picture of relaxation, leaning back in his leather wheelie chair, mouth twitching in barely withheld amusement.

  “You know, Malfoy, I could kill you and no one would miss you,” she hissed, nails digging painfully into her palms.

   “Plenty of people would note my absence, Hermione, yourself included.”

   “I sincerely doubt that.”

   “You might not know why just yet,” Malfoy continued, grey eyes boring into her. “But you would.” Taken aback, Hermione paused, unable to break away from his steely gaze. He sounded so _sure_ , especially as she couldn’t remember him in _that_ way.

   “Be that as it may, _stop_ changing the damn proposal.” Hermione reached across and tapped her wand on the parchment, the words transforming themselves into their original form. “It’s fine as it is.” Clearly unconvinced, Malfoy crossed his right foot over his left, the embodiment of aristocratic disdain. When she turned back to the parchment in front of her, she saw, out of the corner of her eye, Malfoy tap his wand twice on the table and the words scramble themselves once again.

Hermione was dangerously close to strangling a certain blond.

The two had been working together for just over four hours and already Hermione needed a break. Hermione had known the day would be one for the history books when, after barely having set foot through the door, Malfoy had smirked at her in the most irritating fashion, instantly setting her nerves on edge.

  “Changed your mind about moving back in, Hermione?” he had asked, hands tucked in the jacket pockets of his black-on-black suit. Hermione’s eyes had narrowed, annoyed that he and Viktor had clearly assumed that she would kotow so quickly to their frankly unreasonable demands.

  “No.” A curt reply. Malfoy had shrugged then, appearing even less bothered about the whole affair than he had at yesterday’s lunch.

  “Okay.” He had strutted into her office, then, whistling blithely, while Hermione had traipsed behind him, irritation already setting in.

From there, things had only gotten worse. After initially working in her office, she had demanded that they switch to the conference room, loudly informing Malfoy (to the amusement of her entire department) that the 40m2 space was too small to contain his ginormous ego and even larger head. Rather than sniping at her, though, Malfoy had thrown his head back and cackled, obediently following her to the conference room.

That was when Hermione’s fists had first clenched.

Over the next two hours, Malfoy had proceeded to shoot down almost all her ideas, outlining just why they wouldn’t work in practice, and doing it all with a superior smirk on his face and amused grey eyes. What was even more irritating was that Malfoy was actually right, but Hermione would rather bathe in Bubotuber Pus than admit it aloud.

Hence the gritted teeth. So hard had she been grinding them that Hermione was sure white dust would fly out of her mouth if she were to brush her teeth right at that very moment.

  “Malfoy,” Hermione barked, eyes still on the parchment before her; one that would be right at the front of the proposal and needed her urgent attention. But Malfoy didn’t make a move to change it back, instead folding his arms behind his head.

  “You’re so sexy when you’re angry, Kitten,” he drawled, voice laced with a smirk. Startled, Hermione glanced up, eyes wide, to see Malfoy gazing back at her with a dark, knowing look in his eyes. Suddenly uncomfortable, a peculiar heat rushed to her cheeks and her heart gave a hard thud against her ribcage. She knew he’d said that just to get a rise out of her, but it was still hard to resist giving him what he wanted.

Pet names? Really? And one so familiar and, frankly, _sexual_ as ‘ _Kitten’_?

  “Don’t call me that,” she answered as firmly as she could through a suddenly dry throat. A reminder of their previous extremely intimate relationship was the last thing Hermione wanted right then, though Malfoy didn’t seem to care about that whatsoever. Satisfaction seemed to gleam in his eyes as he reclined even further back in his chair, his smirk almost catlike. Determine to ignore his penetrating gaze, Hermione looked back down at her work, not even commenting on the fact that Malfoy hadn’t written a single thing in almost half an hour. Her cheeks were still uncomfortably warm, but she refused to acknowledge it. Apparently amused by this, Malfoy tilted his head, eyeing her with interest.

  “For someone who claims not to remember anything, you sure seem affected, Hermione.” Her name was practically _purred_ , grating its way along her nerves.

  “Screw you, Malfoy.” A laugh was the only response she got.

To her annoyance, five minutes later, the proposal had yet to be changed back.

…

Picking through her chicken Caesar salad, Pansy relished the fact that at least she’d had her first good night’s sleep in over a fortnight. For the first time since Hermione left St. Mungo’s, neither Draco nor Viktor had shown up to her apartment, discreetly seeking comfort from the only person who’d be willing to give it. As sorry as she’d felt for them, Pansy couldn’t afford to slack off at work. Her boss already hated her enough as it was, she didn’t need to give Stinson another excuse to fire her – one she was sure he was just itching to have.

Once again, her past mistakes coming back to haunt her.

As Ortentia Boot and her giggling cronies walked past her table for the seventh time, Pansy didn’t have to look up to know exactly what they were discussing. No doubt she was eating the wrong thing or sitting in the wrong place; unlike Mr Stinson, _they_ didn’t need an excuse to try and make her life a living Hell.

‘Try’ being the keyword, here. After surviving seven years in the snake pit that was the previously esteemed House of Salazar, Pansy was made of tougher stuff.

Didn’t make it any easier, though.

 _Where is Hermione_ , Pansy wondered. The two had made arrangements to eat lunch together, despite the fact that Hermione was still mad over Pansy’s keeping Potter’s little secret about Yaxley. After over a week of keeping the former Gryffindor Princess in the dark over Yaxley’s incarceration and the curse he had used on her, Potter had finally buckled under pressure ( _typical Gryffindor_ , Pansy scoffed) and told his best friend all about it. She, Weasley and the dark-haired idiot had only _just_ managed to convince Hermione that tracking the fuckwit down and making him pay wasn’t the best idea (despite their own feelings to the contrary); that she should let her two best friends handle things and not bury herself in research when she already had such a busy work schedule. Hermione had eventually promised to allow them to do their thing, but Pansy didn’t hold out much hope that it would keep for the long-term.

Hermione wasn’t exactly known for sitting back and letting others do her dirty work.

Around her, the deli continued to bustle with customers, all eager to get their hands on one of the award-winning salads available at the counter. Hermione and Pansy had first bumped into each other here over four years ago, the former bookworm so engrossed in her work that she’d barely even noticed. Barely three years out of the war then, Pansy could now admit that she had been on the defence, hissing a nasty comment in Hermione’s direction – not that she had been paid any attention. The former Gryffindor had simply kept walking, tray perfectly balanced at the end of her wand, nose still buried in pieces of parchment.

It had taken a joint project with the Wizengamot (where, against the oft-expressed wishes of the general public, Pansy worked as a law official) and the Department of Finance for the two women to become friends. Hermione had seen through Pansy’s harsh exterior, glimpsing the hurt and apologetic woman behind it, and the former Slytherin had – after several false starts – accepted that Hermione actually wanted to befriend her.

Had been one of the very few to have wanted to do so since the War had ended.

 _And four years later, here we are,_ Pansy pondered, glancing up to see Hermione and a strutting Draco making their way towards her table now. The former Prince of Slytherin might be one of her best friends, but Hermione was also one of her closest; Viktor, too, had come to have a particular place in her heart (though she’d be damned if she’d admit it). The two men aside, no one wanted to see the three back together more than Pansy did. Up until recently, they had been almost deliriously happy and, though Hermione was incapable of knowing it, Pansy could see that the trio’s breakup had already had an effect on the brunette.

It still didn’t mean that she wanted her home to become a glorified bed and breakfast, though, Pansy mentally scoffed.

  “I don’t even know why I bother working with you, Malfoy.” Hermione slammed her tote bag onto the wooden table, making Pansy’s half-full glass of pumpkin juice tremble dangerously.

  “Maybe it’s because I’m just as good as you and you know it.” Malfoy sank elegantly onto the bench across from Pansy, throwing his cloak over its leather back. Hermione, halfway to sitting, herself, swung round to face him, clearly annoyed, and Pansy watched as the two proceeded to bicker with one another. Being friends with the two, Pansy could see what an outsider would be unable to: while Hermione clearly meant every angry word she was saying, Draco was being playful, grey eyes dancing and a small smirk twitching his lips.

Finally, fed up, Hermione stormed off to the counter, purse in hand, and Pansy turned back to the blond before her, only to see something that made her heart stutter painfully. In place of the amused, playful man that had inhabited the bench just moments before, was a haggard individual with dull eyes and drawn expression. Draco was staring at Hermione’s retreating back with hopelessness in his eyes; his fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles had whitened.

Instinctively, Pansy reached out to grasp his hand, seeking to comfort. Draco didn’t even glance over, so engrossed was he in the brunette who was now laughing with a worker behind the counter. A faint smile crossed his lips at that, though it only saddened Pansy even more. It spoke of a broken heart – one that he (and Viktor) had been working so hard to keep hidden.

At that moment, Pansy knew she couldn’t just sit by and allow this to continue. She _had_ to do something.

  “Draco,” she murmured. The silver-haired man finally looked over at her, and Pansy gasped at the face stark with despair. She almost opened her mouth to say something acknowledging his expression, but his gaze turned into a glare, warning her against it. “She’ll come around.” Pansy changed her words at the last minute, but if anything, Draco looked even more annoyed.

  “I’m not a child that you have to comfort with empty platitudes, Pansy,” he spat, eyes firing back to life. Despite the fact that it was clearly in anger, Pansy was grateful for it, nonetheless. Not that she’d let him know that. If there was anything Draco hated, it was pity.

  “I know that, Draco,” Pansy replied, sharply. “But I can see better than anyone what a toll this is taking on you and Viktor.”

  “And you think you can do anything to help us?” Draco laughed humourlessly, pulling his hand out of her grasp. “Just leave it.”

  “You seemed to think I could help you when you were spending every night at my house.” Pansy was blunt, though she immediately regretted it when Draco’s eyes deadened once more. She glanced over at the counter, making sure that Hermione was still engrossed in choosing her and Draco’s meals, before continuing, “Look, right now, she trusts me a hell of a lot more than she trusts you. Just go with me on this.”

  “Go with you on what?”

  “Give me a minute and you’ll see.” Draco’s lips pursed in irritation, but he finally nodded an agreement, glancing back up as Hermione started to make her way back towards them, as if helpless not to. If Pansy hadn’t felt as sorry for him as she did, she would have let out a loud snigger. Draco was lucky they were friends, she decided.

  “Here you go, Malfoy.” Hermione placed a platter laden with seafood and rice before the silver-haired man. “Puppies’ lungs and children’s souls, just like you asked.” Pansy looked back over at Draco to find that his mask was back in place, an eyebrow raised in apparent amusement. As he snarked back, she laughed under her breath in wonder. Sad though the circumstances were, there was no denying that she was in the presence of a true master.

Hermione plopped herself into the seat besides Pansy, completely missing Draco’s lips pursing for a moment, before returning to their previously-smirking form. Seeing this, Pansy knew that what she was about to do was the right thing. Almost twitching with excitement (it had been over a week since she had manipulated – sorry, _brought round_ a situation to her liking, and she was well past due), she turned to Hermione, salad now forgotten.

  “Molly told me to invite you over for Sunday lunch,” she told Hermione blithely. “She said that it’s been too long since you last came and she hasn’t had a chance to see you since you left St. Mungo’s.” Pansy watched as Hermione did that shifting thing on the bench that she always did before insisting that she had too much work to even _consider_ spending an hour or so away from her desk. That shifting thing that she had done almost every week until last September.

Strengthened by this, Pansy paid Hermione no mind, cutting in before the brunette could even get a word out.

  “She said to remind you that you haven’t been to a lunch in over a month and Teddy is starting to miss you.” At the mention of her honorary nephew, Hermione grew visibly uncomfortable, eyes darting around the table, but Pansy had never backed down from using emotional blackmail before and she didn’t intend to start now. It was always so effective.

  “Fine.” Hermione gave in gracelessly, starting to pick through her salad with a pout. Excellent. Now it was time for the finishing touch…

  “Oh, and she said that you and Viktor are invited too, Draco,” Pansy added innocently, now munching away merrily on some sprouts. Hermione almost spat out her chicken but neither Pansy nor Draco paid her any mind, the only sign that the latter had even heard her being a small smile gracing his lips. The brunette glared accusingly at Pansy but the former Slytherin gazed with wide-eyed innocence around the restaurant, and Hermione soon gave up, choosing to menacingly eye her salad instead.

Draco threw an admiring glance Pansy’s way (well, as admiring as he was capable of) and she couldn’t prevent a devious smile from crossing her lips. Pansy had a plan.

By the time Sunday lunch was over, Hermione would have packed her bags and moved back in with Draco and Viktor, or she wasn’t a Parkinson.

 

* * *

 

Yes, I know it’s two weeks late and I sincerely apologise. What with uni starting back up, I had to pack and move all the way back, leaving very little time to write. Not to worry, though. Now that I’m settled in and classes have started, I’ve set aside time every Sunday to write and edit, and chapters will be up either every Sunday or every Wednesday.

This chapter can be thought of as filler, if you like, though there is some character and plot development in here. The speed will pick up slightly from here on and we’ll start to see POVs from Draco and Viktor as well.

We’ve got quite a few events coming up, several previously unmentioned characters to be introduced and I’m thinking this could be in the 30-chapter region because I have so much more ground that I want to cover.

Anyway, let me know what you think. Your reviews are what kept me inspired over the last few weeks and I truly appreciate each and every one.

Till next week (or maybe even this Sunday),

**_TBOF._ **

 


	8. VIII

**VIII**

 

* * *

“Sadness was so claustrophobic.”   
― Kiran Desai

 

* * *

It had been twenty-nine days since Hermione was attacked.

 

696 hours.

 

41,760 minutes.

 

2,505,600 seconds.

 

If Viktor were to be even more precise: it had been exactly twenty-nine days, fourteen hours, seventeen minutes and six seconds since he had first heard of Hermione’s attack.

Some might ask why he had the time down to the exact second. Viktor would simply frown and reply that the idea of _not_ having it had never crossed his mind. Friday 29 th July 2005 at 8:51 p.m. had turned out to be one of the definitive moments of his life.

…

For the third time that day, Viktor paused outside the bedroom door. As had been his habit for the last fortnight, he instinctively took a step towards it. This time, though, he went a little further, his hand reaching out to grab the crystal knob.

Only to fall away just before it touched the cold, transparent surface.

Grumbling to himself in disappointment, Viktor clenched his hands into tight fists and glared at the door. It continued to stare back, silent, recriminatory. And he couldn’t blame it. After all, if he couldn’t even do this – if he couldn’t even bring himself to enter that room – how would he manage to sit across from _her_ at lunch today?

  “Po dyavolite!” Viktor cursed, disgusted. He had decided earlier that morning that this was to be the test. If he could just open the door, if he could just walk into that room, it’d be progress. He’d be in a much better position to face her without cracking, without pushing her even further away than he and Draco already had.  

The bedroom was the last down the corridor and the largest of the townhouse’s five. He and Draco had taken to sleeping in the two at the other end of the plush carpeted corridor, and neither had stepped foot in it since that day almost four weeks ago when, in the middle of a Puddlemere practice, Viktor had gotten the news that Hermione was in a coma at St. Mungo’s.

It had taken all of Viktor’s not inconsiderable skill to land his Firebolt GT on the turf; he’d sprinted out of the stadium and halfway down the street, before he’d remembered to Apparate.

It had been raining in London when he’d arrived a split-second later. Appropriate, he thought now. At the time, he hadn’t been able to focus on anything other than getting to Hermione’s side.

Neither he nor Draco had been prepared for the sight of Hermione lying comatose on that hospital bed. Having the doctors tell them that they weren’t sure if she’d ever wake up, that they’d tried everything to no avail – it had topped everything he had suffered during the war.

Draco had said the same and he’d had an even worse time during that year.

They had been sure then that that was the worst moment of their lives. At least that’s what they had thought until she’d woken up, recognising them but _not_ recognising them.

Until she’d forced them to leave her room.

Until she’d refused to see them for weeks on end.

Defeated, Viktor turned away from the door and trudged back down the corridor to his room. Draco had gone out earlier, claiming that he wanted to have a word with Pansy. Viktor had refused the offer to go with him, wanting to use the time to engage in this fruitless endeavour.

Feeling drained, Viktor collapsed heavily onto his bed. To be honest, he didn’t know which was worse: Hermione refusing to see them or Hermione treating them as if the last year had never happened. It had only been three days since Hermione and Draco had started working together again, but Viktor could already see the toll it was taking on his best friend, his brother-in-arms. He understood completely. One lunch with her had had him curled up in misery on the floor of the locker room showers.

Every day after he left the Ministry, Draco would lock himself in his room for an hour. Viktor never heard a sound, but when the blond emerged, the first thing he did was recount his day with Hermione word for word.

Having been friends with Hermione for over a decade, Viktor knew how stubborn she could be. The woman was like a mule when pushed and showed no signs of wanting to move back in. Of wanting anything more from them than what they’d had before last September.

Over the last year, he, Draco and Hermione had overcome every obstacle, handled everything that had come their way. Viktor had grown used to dealing with bludgers, annoying press and interfering friends. But a curse known by only the dead; how was he supposed to deal with that?

How could he protect the person he loved the most from something he couldn’t fight?

…

Three hours later, Viktor’s mood hadn’t improved. Around him, the relentless hubbub of the Burrow failed to provide a distraction; various Weasleys raced around, setting up for Sunday lunch.

In the aftermath of the war, Molly – reeling from almost losing Fred - had insisted that her family (adopted and all) meet up every Sunday for lunch. With the exception of only one lunch (the Sunday of Victoire’s birth), the arrangement had been stuck to.

Despite the dreary day signalling the coming of autumn, today was no different. Fred and George were off in a corner with Teddy Lupin, talking in voices so quiet as to be suspicious; Molly, if she were paying attention, would undoubtedly put a stop to it. Angelina and Katie Bell, Fred’s fiancée, were helping Molly finish up the roast and vegetables, as Bill, Charlie and Percy levitated plates from the kitchen to the dining room. Fleur and Hannah Abott, Charlie’s girlfriend, chatted about Fred’s upcoming nuptials, as Victoire played at her mother’s feet.

Viktor’s attention, however, was on the surprising chess match taking place in the midst of all the chaos. Surprising because, despite Ron and Draco being the best chess players Viktor had ever encountered, neither man had ever faced each other before, choosing to demonstrate their skill against other, lesser, opponents. Viktor had always thought that their reluctance to face one another stemmed from an unsurety as to who would win. When he’d asked Draco about it a few months ago, however, the blond had merely said that he hadn’t wanted ‘to break the Weasel’s heart’ after having _just_ been invited to his home. Apparently, it was too cruel - even for Draco.

Viktor walked over to the corner where Ron, Draco and Harry sat. He grabbed a chair and turned it around, sitting down and folding his arms over its back, legs swung over either side. Before him on the coffee table was an old chess set, passed down from generation to generation of Weasleys.

So far, only pawns and a couple of knights had been moved, but Ron bore a look of intense concentration, eyes on the board. Harry, too, was watching the progress of the match. Draco was a different story. His steely gaze was fixed on the other side of the room and, when Viktor followed it, it was obvious why.

Hermione had just entered the dining room and was chatting away with Molly, who was clearly overjoyed at seeing her. As the older woman drew her in for one of her famous hugs, Viktor drank in the sight of her. With her hair tussled by the wind and clad in a green wrap-dress, Hermione looked radiant. At least, she would have to the outside world.

Viktor quickly glanced over at Draco to see if he’d noticed it as well. The blond’s grey eyes were already fixed on him, his mouth thinned into a line of displeasure. Together, the two men looked back over at their girlfriend – _former girlfriend,_ Viktor corrected himself, mouth twisting ruefully. Molly, Katie, Angelina and Pansy (who had just entered the room, having arrived just after Hermione) didn’t seem to have noticed, all three chattering away happily as Hermione gave one-word answers, but he and Draco had seen this sight many times, usually before an argument started up. The petite brunette’s face was wan beneath her makeup, mouth downturned, eyes dim and shoulders slightly stooped. Hermione was exhausted.

Impotent anger swept over Viktor. This is what happened when Hermione didn’t have him and Draco to take care of her, to ensure that she ate and slept well. And then he couldn’t help but be annoyed at feeling angry, because none of this was her fault. It was that idiot Yaxley’s fault for doing this to her – to them. Using a curse that he had no knowledge of and, in the process, inflicting something even worse than what was intended. Wiping clean all her memories of Viktor and Draco from the last year; if Viktor hadn’t known that the _kreten_ was just an incompetent fool, he would have thought it was intentional.

It was his and Draco’s fault for not being there to protect her, as they should have been. Because that was what Viktor hated most about this; the sour taste of self-recrimination hadn’t left his mouth since that late evening in July. None of this would have happened if he and Draco hadn’t-

 _‘But it’s pointless dwelling on that, now_ ,’ Viktor thought. None of that would help them or Hermione. He and Draco’s main priority would continue to be getting their Hermione back in Chelsea where she belonged. Then they could focus on avenging her.

Bitter but resolute, Viktor turned back to the match to find that it had progressed considerably.

  “My pawn for your bishop, Weasley,” Draco drawled with a smirk, taking the desired piece. “Not a bad trade.”

  Ron didn’t say anything, choosing instead to glare balefully at his opponent. Harry leaned back in his chair, seeming about to say something, but was cut off by Pansy sweeping in and plonking herself on the sofa behind the dark-haired man.

  “Gentlemen. Well, gentlemen and Potter,” Pansy corrected herself in cut-glass tones. The three men greeted her as Harry scowled in her general direction.

  “What are _you_ doing here, Parkinson?” he asked.

  “I’m here _every_ Sunday, Potter. You know, I’m really quite worried for your sanity,” she answered conversationally.

  Harry turned around to scowl at her directly this time. “I meant sitting behind me. What are you doing sitting behind me?”

  “Well, you should be more specific next time.” As Harry growled, Pansy blithely continued, “And I’m here to talk to Viktor and Draco, so don’t flatter yourself.”

  “What’s the plan, Pans?” Draco asked, focus still on the chess board. Thanks to Draco’s recount of Friday’s lunch with her and Hermione, Viktor knew what they were talking about. He glanced over at Pansy, who was somehow managing to appear more smug than sympathetic. How, he didn’t know. It must’ve been one of those skills taught to all Slytherin students.

  “We’re going to question her.”

A pause.

  “Question her?” Viktor was glad Draco had asked because he too was confused. If Pansy’s plan was anything like that Muggle television show Hermione had made him watch a few times, things were going to go south fast.

  “Yep. Question her,” Pansy answered, eyes bright. When Pansy caught Viktor and Draco exchanging unconvinced glances, she explained, “Find out where her head is at; sow the seeds for your reunion.”

Viktor was now quite sure that Pansy had finally cracked - not that he was too surprised. There had been signs of encroaching insanity for years now.

  “Pansy, ve have already tried this,” Viktor pointed out, eyebrows drawing together in a frown. Draco nodded his agreement and moved his queen three steps forward. Pansy brushed them off, waving a hand nonchalantly.

  “Not like this you haven’t. It’s a public setting, one she can’t escape from. Plus, she’s tired,” Pansy added brightly. “She won’t have the energy to run.”

Viktor stared at her in disbelief. Harry’s mouth had dropped open, and rightfully so. Ron’s focus was still on the chess board. Somewhat unsurprisingly, however, the Slytherin in Draco had the blond visibly considering it.

  “Draco,” Viktor snapped. “Ve are not going to do this. She vould never forgive us.” A flicker of doubt crossed Draco’s face before he turned to Viktor.

  “We’ve tried everything else, Vik,” Draco said tiredly. His tone matched his eyes, so oddly bleak that even Ron looked up from the board. “At this point, we have nothing to lose.” At his words, Viktor’s heart gave a hard pound against his chest. Draco was right. Sure, it was a desperate move, but anything was better than the stalemate they currently had going. Their romantic relationship aside, Viktor missed the friend he had had in her before they had even gotten together.

They _had_ to do something, even if Hermione hated them for it.

Sighing heavily, knowing that this could be their last chance at getting Hermione to treat them with anything other than the heart-breaking detachment she currently was, Viktor gave a reluctant nod.

  “Great!” Pansy rose from her seat. “And, before you say anything, Potter-” she cut off the dark-haired man who looked about to argue against it – “at least _I_ came up with something. You and Weasley have been nothing but useless. You could have convinced her to move back home weeks ago.”

Ron snorted as Harry bluntly replied, “Fuck you, Parkinson.”

  “Yeah,” Ron spoke for the first time in over twenty minutes. “Funny how you’ve forgotten all about you trying that and failing miserably.” The red-head then proceeded to snigger nastily, even as Draco took one of his knights. The board now looked like a war zone with half the pieces having fallen victim.

Pansy rolled her eyes and airily waved both Harry and Ron off. “Excuses, excuses, boys. I’m still the only one who’s trying something new.” She stalked off, pert nose in the air.

  “Lunch is ready!” Molly called from the dining room, banging pans together to attract the room’s attention. The match unfinished, the four men rose from their seats. Ron hurried out as if wild dogs were chasing after him, Harry in his stead. Draco’s gaze was fixed on the board, eyes darting from piece to piece, but Viktor knew he was thinking about what they were about to do.

  “I hope this works,” Viktor finally voiced both their thoughts. Draco glanced up and the two men shared a bleak smile. They knew Hermione better than almost anyone. It went without saying that neither held out much hope.

…

Incessant chatter and the scrape of metal against china grated heavily on Viktor’s nerves. They were already halfway through the meal and Pansy had yet to ask Hermione a single question. While he and Draco sat like prisoners awaiting execution, the remainder of the table’s many occupants ate Molly’s exquisite roast heartily, all the while talking over one another in voices trained to carry. Boisterous laughter echoed around the room, seeming to mock the two men seated silently at the far end of the table.

They only thing they could be grateful for, Viktor thought, was that (thanks to some careful manoeuvring on Pansy’s part – the one thing she had done so far) Hermione had been forced to sit directly opposite them. After having gone over a fortnight without seeing her (and only having had one lunch together since), such an act was like giving water to a man dying of thirst. With the exception of a quick hello and polite chat, however, Hermione had barely said two words to them.

At this point, Viktor was desperate. If Pansy didn’t do something soon, he’d have to take matters into his own hands.

 _‘And do what, Viktor?’_ he thought. Fact remained that Hermione still couldn’t remember being with him and Draco, and the only suggestion St. Mungo’s had given so far was for her to return to the life she’d lived before the attack. Something she steadfastly refused to do.

Not for the first time, Viktor cursed their witch’s stubbornness. ‘ _Though, it’s part of the reason we love her so much,’_ Viktor thought ruefully, looking up at her. Hermione was picking listlessly at her carrots and peas, avoiding the succulent roast chicken completely. Once the initial hubbub over her return to the Burrow was over, both he and Draco had silently noted that she had barely said a word to anyone else at the table, appearing lost in thought.

  “Viktor,” a voice called from the other end of the table, interrupting his musings. Viktor reluctantly looked away from the captivating woman across from him, meeting George’s dancing eyes.  

  “Yes?”

  “You have a match next Sunday, right?” When Viktor nodded, George continued, “Me and Fred were wondering if we could cadge some tickets.” Confused, Viktor frowned. He’d gone into Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes on Friday to buy a gift for Teddy (the child had learned to expect presents every Sunday lunch. Viktor didn’t know if it had been his best idea) and the twins had asked him for tickets then. Tickets he’d already given them.

He was about to remind George of that when he was kicked sharply in the shin. Flinching, he turned to the direction of the kicker to find Pansy discreetly shaking her head, eyes wide.

_Oh…_

  “Sure. Come round later. I vill have them,” he answered. As George’s gaze turned to the silent woman opposite Viktor, Viktor kicked himself for not realising what the Weasley twin was up to. Of course Pansy would have recruited minions to do her dirty work. As Draco always said, _it was the Slytherin way_.

  “Hermione!” George’s excitement was palpable, making it only the more confusing for those at the table who had no idea what was going on. George’s exclamation drew everyone’s attention to Hermione. She looked over, eyebrows furrowed.

  “Yes, George?”

  “Will your lovely self be joining us?” George’s eyes were brighter than the lanterns lighting the darkened dining room.

  “What, at the match?” Hermione asked.

  “Yes, at the match. Will you accompany Fred -” he pointed to his twin who raised a hand– “and myself?”

  “Well, I hadn’t planned on it-”

  “But Hermione, sweets, how will Viktor feel if you don’t turn up? You always go to his matches. It would be rude!”

George and Fred sat there, wearing disturbingly evil grins. Hermione glanced around the table for help, clearly wondering what was going on. As Viktor exchanged glances with a gleeful Pansy, Draco watched the brunette steadily.

  “I hadn’t really thought about it,” Hermione replied at length, eyes hesitant.

As George sat back, apparently satisfied, Fred took up, “So, it’s settled then. We’ll pick you up at one.”

  “But I-”

  “No need to thank us, Hermione.” Fred waved off Hermione’s interruption as if it were nothing more than a fly. “You know we’d do anything for you.” Out of the corner of his eye, Viktor saw Draco’s lips stretch into a sly grin. He didn’t need to have the blond’s skill at Legilimency to know that he was pleasantly surprised at how easily the twins had managed to manipulate their witch. If either he or Draco had attempted it, they would have gotten a definitive no.

They had the empty fifth bedroom to show for that.

Before Viktor could dwell on that room once again, though, Pansy perked up. Clearly taking advantage of her rapt audience, she turned to the petite woman beside her.

  “Speaking of things you’re obligated to do - have you given any more thought to what Dr. Besette said?” At Pansy’s words, Hermione glared at her with the hatred of a thousand burning suns. It seemed to have no effect on the former Slytherin, however, for she continued, “It’s for your own good, you know.”

  “Shut _up_ , Pansy,” Hermione hissed, sparks flying from her eyes.

  “What are you talking about, Pansy, dear?” Molly asked, peering down from the head of the table. The table shook and Viktor knew that, under it, a certain loud-mouthed woman was being viciously kicked.

Far be it from Pansy to let mere physical violence stop her, though.

  “She didn’t tell you?” The table shook again. “Hermione is supposed to move back in with Viktor and Draco – doctor’s orders.” Viktor’s eyebrows shot up as a low growl was emitted from the other side of the table. Beside him, a chuckle was unsuccessfully disguised as a heavy cough.

A low buzz of conversation started up as Molly gazed at Hermione in disappointment. “Hermione, why haven’t you?”

Hermione shuffled uncomfortably as Pansy answered, “Dr Besette said it was the best chance at her getting her memories back.” Here, she sighed as if tired and continued, “But Hermione doesn’t seem interested.”

As Molly expressed her disappointment in the former Gryffindor Princess, instructing her to follow the doctor’s orders immediately, Viktor and Draco watched enthralled as Pansy and Hermione had a silent conversation. With pokes, widened eyes and intermittent head nods in the two men’s direction, Viktor didn’t think that he had ever witnessed more said with less.

  “Merlin only knows what could happen, dear,” Molly’s sombre tone brought all attention back to the Weasley matriarch. Her eyes were solemn, her love for Hermione plainly written in every wrinkle around them. “Harry just told me that you might even start losing the memories that you _do_ still have. We can’t afford to take any risks.”

At Molly’s worry, Hermione lost all steam, face fallen. For the first time in a while, she glanced over at Viktor and Draco. At her despair, Viktor’s heart gave another hard thud. A disheartened Hermione always made him want to give her anything she wanted, anything she asked for, just so she wouldn’t look at him like that again.

He could withstand just about anything else.

  “That dreadful Yaxley took something so precious away from you and you must do everything you can to get it back,” Molly said seriously, eyes shining with barely withheld tears. She and Hermione shared a look of a thousand words, born of shared suffering and loss. Silence reigned supreme, the room turning unusually sombre.

  “I’ll think about it,” Hermione said at last. As Viktor’s heart rose into the rafters, she glanced over at him and Draco. Regret and sorrow shone in them for a moment before she looked away, but it was enough. Hope, long forgotten and much-missed, swelled within his chest, making Viktor feel lighter than he had in almost a month.

Looking over at Draco, it was clear that he felt the same, his grey eyes alight with a fervency and determination that had been absent for too long. The two men shared a look of understanding, one that could only be borne from mutual love and a bond of brotherhood forged in the fiercest fire.

As conversation gradually resumed, Viktor glanced at Molly, who was still sitting silently. The older woman’s blue eyes met his and they smiled faintly at one another, before she nodded and turned to Teddy, who was asking for more parsnips.

In that moment, Viktor knew that Molly understood exactly what he and Draco were going through. He knew what she had just done for Hermione, _for them._

_Blagodarya, Molly. Blagodarya._

…

  “I beat you, Malfoy! Ha! Ha!” Ron danced out of the sitting room, his Firebolt GT clutched firmly to his chest. The weather had finally cleared up, the sun come out to play, and almost everyone had already gone out to engage in a game of Quidditch.

Not Viktor, Draco, Harry and Ron, though. The four men had stayed behind after dinner to bring an end to the question of just who between Draco and Ron was the better chess player. After a heated twenty minute battle, Ron had taken Draco’s king in a move that even Viktor could see was a beginner’s mistake. But as Ron had taken great pains to point out over the last five minutes, even great players made mistakes when confronted by ‘the best’.

Ron had never believed in false modesty.

After Harry had exited behind his crowing best friend, Draco turned to Viktor.

  “It’s a start.”

  “Yes.”

  “Pansy actually came through.”

  “Even blind squirrel find nut once in a vhile,” Viktor pointed out. Draco’s laughter boomed out of his chest, eyes dancing. Viktor joined in and the two men laughed with the relief of death row inmates granted a last-hour reprieve.

Their laughter died away and a comfortable silence took its place. Draco’s eyes returned to the board.

  “Ve must be very persuasive.”

  “Isn’t that our speciality?”

Viktor had always liked that they could communicate so effectively with so few words.

  “She is softening. Ve must not waste this opportunity.” As Viktor spoke fervently, Draco placed two pieces back in their original places on the board– his king and Ron’s queen.

  “We’ve always played the long game, Vik.” With the deftness of the truly skilled, he moved his knight just one step forward at the far end of the board. Ron’s king was now surrounded by Draco’s pieces. A triumphant smirk twisted Draco’s lips.

  “Checkmate.”

…

 

* * *

 

Well, the longest chapter yet and we have progress on some fronts!

I apologise once again for the two-week wait. With uni and various other commitments, _VIII_ took a little longer than I wanted. I also wanted to make sure it was a solid chapter as it is Viktor’s first.

Anyway, for all those who want to know when I plan to update, make sure to check my profile on a weekly basis. I will try to stick to uploading chapters once a week, but they might also come every fortnight, so make sure to check there.

Expect _IX_ sometime next week – either Wednesday or Sunday. If not, the Wednesday after.

 

**Translations:**

_Po dyavolite_ – Damn it.

 _Kreten_ – Retard

 _Blagodarya_ – Thank you.


End file.
